It’s been a crazy year. It’s tough to say goodbye to a place that has become your home. Last day of work today. Said final goodbyes to close friends this evening. Had our last meals. Took our last cab ride home. Now it’s time to crash one more time in our apartment, before we take off early tomorrow morning for Malaysia for an island vacation in Langkawi.
Yes, you should be jealous.
Even though I’m exhausted, I felt the need to write this post to say farewell in some more permanent way. It doesn’t feel real to say goodbye yet. It feels like I”ll just come right back.
It doesn’t really feel like it’s over until months later, when it hits you: you have a new life now. New place, new friends, new possibilities. I”m so excited for the future, but I have no regrets about this amazing, topsy-turvy year in one of the world’s most dynamic cities. I’ll never forget Shanghai, or our little neighborhood in Xuhui. Never ever.
Life-changing experience. But…
…. I’m coming HOME!!!!!!! And I’m ready for the next chapter. So ready.
Goodbyes are hard. As Rick and I prepare to leave Shanghai – our flight out of here is in five short days, the morning of Saturday July 30 – we have been saying goodbye to our favorite places, favorite foods, and favorite people. Of course, it’s the people that are the toughest to let go.
Rick and I have made some wonderful friends this year, primarily through Ricks’ soccer team, the Cosmos. I take full credit for this, as it was through my colleague Jon that we found the team. I haven’t blogged about our adventures with the Cosmos, a serious omission as the people on the team have shaped our social lives here in Shanghai.
The soccer players, or as they call themselves “footballers,” on the Cosmos are mostly from the British commonwealth, with a smattering of Americans, Canadians, and other Europeans (one Greek, one Spaniard, and even one guy from Kazakhstan). Needless to say, their accents are all adorable.
Most of the Cosmos are in their late twenties, with the range being from 22 (Rick was the youngest player this year) to mid-50s. They are an extraordinarily good-humored group, very inclusive, and they just love to have a good time. The boys that have girlfriends usually bring them along, and the girlfriends are just as much part of the group as the boys (and can chug beer just as well, too).
The gang, which includes the players and their girlfriends, is led by the two lovable team managers, Jordan and Cartu. Jordan is a British redhead with a big ego who went to University with Prince William and Princess Kate Middleton– he actually co-hosted the royal wedding on Chinese national television, which was hilarious to watch. Cartu is a charismatic Canadian who always brings everyone into the fun and who loves to sing 90s hits very loudly when he’s drunk. Both men ironically work for alcohol companies, Bacardi and Duvel, respectively.
Together, the group of hooligans drinks so much that twice in our time with them, the restaurant ran out of beer. They can all drink like there’s no tomorrow, especially the Sean the Irishman.
I have always felt entirely welcome and fully included in all the social activities. These activities have ranged from an afternoon drinks at Jordan’s apartment to a five-hour long Indian buffet brunch, from an excursion to see a Chinese Polo match (yes, we did that) to the 2:30am showing of the World Cup at a sports bar (no, we did not do that, though Rick wanted to).
On Saturday, Rick had a going away gathering a local bar, The Shed, that has agreed to sponsor the Cosmos next year. Two hours in, Cartu led a round of toasts to Rick (and me), and each member of the team said something kind about Rick, which was so touching and really quite sad. Then, Rick went around and said something about each of the guys.
When Rick was done, I added how grateful I was that the guys had always been so inclusive towards me, and I thanked them for making me feel like part of the team.
Later that night, Jon hosted a dinner for his birthday, where 25 of us ate an entire roast lamb! I said a few very sad goodbyes, especially when saying goodbye to Jon’s girlfriend Anna and Cartu’s girlfriend Marina, who had both been super nice to me. I never got to know them all that well, and I was very sad I wouldn’t get the chance. Rick and I were very quiet on the cab ride home, reflecting on our goodbyes.
It’s amazing how much being part of a social group can make a place feel like home. Who who know, who you spend time with, always shapes your experience of a place more than anything else. The Cosmos are largely to thank for making our year in Shanghai special. They were our community here, and was really hard to say goodbye. I could’t tell you half of their last names, but they really grew to feel like a family while we were here.
I’ll miss them very much, more than all my favorite restaurants combined.
As soon as I found out about the all-Chinese Mama Mia! debuting at the Shanghai Grand Theater, I knew I had to go. I wouldn’t let anything get in the way: this was a historic event in musical theater history–Mama Mia! is the first western musical to be produced in Chinese– and damned if this theater geek wasn’t gonna be there!!! Also, after a year of being entirely starved of my favorite art form, both as an audience member and as a participant, I couldn’t resist the thought of an all-Chinese cast belting out ABBA’s classics in Mandarin while wearing silly costumes (see picture above).
I was just as eager to watch the audience as the action on stage. How would China receive a show like Mama Mia!? First of all, its success in the West was precipitated by the popularity of ABBA’s music ( for those of you who don’t know, the score is entirely made up of ABBA songs, lyrics unadulterated), but ABBA, so far as I know, has never been popular in China.
Second of all, the story and the characters are so very un-Chinese. The main characters are a girl, Sophie, who doesn’t know who her father is, and her mother, Donna, who also doesn’t know who the father is! Donna’s behavior is so very un-Chinese: sleeping around before marriage, with multiple men in the same few weeks, then having a child out of wedlock! How scandalous! The musical also has other un-Chinese moments, like an older woman having an affair with a young man (and flirting like crazy in public), and another older woman throwing herself at a man who doesn’t seem interested.
And third of all, China doesn’t have a musical theater culture. While there is traditional Peking Opera and other forms of theatrical performance in China’s history, there’s nothing like the Broadway/West-End musical to speak of. Where would you find the actors to handle the material? And wouldn’t a lot of the humor be lost in translation? I had to find out!
With all my curiosity, I splurged for the tickets for me and Rick (about US$100 apiece for orchestra seats), armed myself with a video camera, and went to the show!
A Review of China’s Mama Mia!
I’ll keep this short, but the show all-in-all was fantastic! Much better than I expected!
The show was put up by the team behind the original West-End production, so in many aspects, the show was identical to its English counterpart: set, costumes, lighting design, and direction were all on par with the original musical – top notch professional stuff. No need to spend time elaborating on those aspects. Really I just want to talk about two things: the language, and the cast.
The language worked surprisingly well. According CNNgo, the translations were kept as close to the meanings of the original lyrics as possible, and the translators left iconic words in the songs: “Dancing Queen,” “Money, Money, Money,” and “Honey Honey” remained in English, while the rest of the song was in Chinese. All of ABBA’s songs sounded just as good in Chinese, and there was plenty of rhyming, so clearly these translators were pros. It was really fun for me whenever I understood the Chinese lyrics, aided by my strong knowledge of the original lyrics.
They also left all the original character names unchanged. Some of these worked better than others. Donna and Sophie weren’t too awkward, but the names Sam Carmichael, Bill Anderson and Harry Bright (Sophie’s three potential fathers) were kind of hilarious when pronounced with a thick Chinese accent, and made me chuckle. (Also, those were the names of three Chinese men? Not very convincing!)
And the humor! They obviously altered a lot of the humor, and Rick and I certainly missed quite of few of the jokes that the audience loved. But on the whole, the humor worked really well, especially the physical humor. People even laughed at Donna’s scandalous predicament of not knowing her daughter’s father. It didn’t become tense or anything, as I worried it might because of the taboo, foreign behaviors of the characters.
The cast was also excellent on the whole, but the women really outshone the men. Tian Shui as Donna was INCREDIBLE, a seasoned stage actress and it showed. Her voice was absolutely gorgeous, everything she did seemed effortless, and she was funny to boot. As good as any musical theater professional I’ve ever seen. Donna’s two best friends, played by two professional Chinese vocalists, were also excellent – perfectly cast, great singers and strong actresses. The actress portraying Sophie, Taiwanese newbie Zhang Fangyu, was also very strong, with a very pretty voice and a strong belt, but at times she was a bit pitchy. Still, overall, the women ROCKED, as they should because women own this show.
The men… well, they didn’t rock so much. As vocalists, the four lead males – Sophie’s three possible fathers and her fiancee Sky – were all lackluster. Their voices were all throaty and thin. A few times, I feared that the man who played Sam, who was miscast, wouldn’t hit the high notes in “Knowing Me, Knowing You.” And Sky was quite pitchy, I’ll leave it at that. But all the boys, to their credit, milked their laughs.
The ensemble was strong. Great energy all around, and they were all good dancers and held their harmonies. Granted, the dance in the show is not very difficult, but still, I was impressed with the highly professional performances from the ensemble, as the actors were mostly total newbies to the stage, fresh out of acting school or conservatory.
Overall, bravo bravo! The show deserved the standing ovation it got!
Dawning of a new era?
This could be the start of something beautiful. I was so pleasantly surprised when the entire audience got to its feet during the post-curtain call renditions of “Dancing Queen” and “Waterloo.” When I saw Mama Mia! years ago in San Francisco, the same thing happened, but that’s because everyone in the audience loved ABBA and was singing along. In Shanghai, all these songs were new to the audience, but they still got up and danced and clapped! Marvelous! Everyone was clearly having a great time, and the audience was young on the whole (20s-40s).
I think musical theater has a bright future in China. I hope more Western musicals are translated into Chinese, but I hope even more that the Chinese start churning out their own original musicals. Peking Opera needs a successor. China is chock-full of fantastic material for historical musicals, and many of the popular TV shows and miniseries could easily become modern musicals like Mama Mia, full of relationship drama, situational comedy, and hijinks. Also, the Chinese love Shakespeare: let’s get some musical adaptations in the works, people! The modern Chinese Kiss Me Kate is begging to get made!
But the real reason I have so much hope for the musical is that musical theater has a wonderful capacity to be both entertaining and politically harmless. Much more so than in non-musical theater, musicals are very rarely politically subversive, or political at all (I can only think of a handful, like Cabaret and Miss Saigon). I think Hu Jintao would approve of Hello Dolly! or My Fair Lady, don’t you? Hell, he might even give the Chinese Eliza Doolittle a standing ovation one day!
I’ve lived in China for 13 months now, and I’m leaving in about two weeks. Crazy. It’s put me in a reflective mood about my time here, and I thought it would be fun to make my own version of the “You know you’ve been ____ too long when…”. I’ve seen other lists like this about China or Shanghai, very long ones, very amusing ones. Here’s my version, my top ten:
1. You compulsively push the close-door button in the elevator. I think this is the single most Chinese behavioral shift of mine. For some reason (I think it has to do with the low quality of the elevators), everyone here (I mean EVERYONE) compulsively presses the close-door button in the elevator. Even if they see more people trying to come in, most of the time, the person nearest the button reaches out and presses it, over and over. I now do this too. It’s compulsive, mindless, a rewiring of my brain. I have a feeling I’ll continue with this silly habit even when I’m home.
2. You can cross the street without fearing for you life. It took me about 2 months in Shanghai to learn to cross the street without almost dying. I had to retrain my instincts. You see, before, my body told me that when a motorcycle was heading straight for me, I should stop like a deer in headlights and maybe even jump backwards a bit. Now I know you just need to keep walking, and the mopeds, bicycles, cars and busses will just swerve around you. Also, I always always always look both ways before crossing the street, and continuously while crossing the street. Again, a rewiring of my brain to fit Shanghai.
3. You shout Chinese explatives — aiyoh! – instead of those from your homeland. I no longer say “hey,” or “damn,” or “awww!” when I’m caught off guard or angry. Instead, I say, aiyoh! It’s instinct now. Also, instead of “um,” I say, “en” (prounounced “ungh” all back in your throat) or “neige” (pronounced nay-guh). Instead of “okay,” I say, “ok ok ok, haode.” I repeat things a lot more. Just how we jive here.
4. You cook everything in one pan: your wok. Most apartments in China don’t have ovens. Baked goods here are specialty items, treats that you buy at the store. Everything is cooked in the wok. My apartment has two burners, and though I own four pots and pans, I only use the wok. I scramble eggs in it. I braise pork belly in it. I make stir fries in it. I even boil things in it. I also only use one knife: my big cleaver. It can cut anything. That’s all I need.
5. News about food scandals no longer scares you. Exploding watermelons? No big. Cucmbers treated with birth control sex hormones? I doubt they’ll affect us. Milk tainted with industrial chemicals? Pork that glows in the dark? … I’ll take my chances. Don’t want to spring for Western food tonight when I can get a delicious dinner for 5 kuai from the street vendor! What-ever, these scandals won’t affect me! … You can’t live in constant fear.
6. You have friends from at least 10 different countries. I have made friends with Chinese, French, Italian, British, Irish, Spanish, Chilean, German, Russian, Korean, Japanese, Indian, Swedish, Danish, and American people since I moved here. And my best friend from HBA is from the Ivory Coast, so I count him too. I’m sure I missed some. Shanghai is so incredibly international.
7. You have formed alliances at the fabric market. Get enough visitors from home, and you’re bound to get to know some people at the fabric market. Rick and I are good friends with the people at Judy’s. Now that we’re nearing the end of our stay, we’ve returned every week for the last month to get things made for ourselves. Two tailored suits, skirt and pants, for $200? Score! And I’m getting a Chiense qipao dress made right now. Rick is a master bargainer and has impressed me – and the people at the fabric market – countless times with his ferocity.
8. Hardly anything offends you anymore. Motorcyclists and drivers cutting you off; horns honking non-stop; strangers shoving you, yelling at you, and hawking lugis right next to your exposed feet; babies running around without any pants on, and doing their business on the sidewalk next to your apartment; people gawking at you because you’re a foreigner; people trying to cut you in line at the convenience store; waiters and cab drivers ignoring you; it never ends in Shanghai. And while these things once bothered me, infuriated me, frustrated me and grossed me out, they no longer chafe so much. In fact, I can ignore them most of the time. Nothing offends me anymore.
9. You can read a Chinese menu, without pictures. Other than a handful of famous dishes, they don’t teach you food words in Chinese class. They taught us to discuss political movements, like the “opening up and reform” China experienced under Deng Xiaoping (改革开放), but they didn’t teach you how to say “fried rice” (炒饭). You know you’ve lived in China too long when you can recognize almost every dish on a picture-less menu, even those that don’t indicate the ingredients in the dish, like “eight treasures rice” (八宝饭) and “big plate chicken” (大盘鸡).
10. You no longer get compliments on your Chinese. Unlike when I first arrived in China, I am no longer eager to improve my Mandarin. In fact, I’m rather tired of Mandarin and use my foreigner looks to pretend I can’t speak Chinese. I use English whenever possible, and I frequent expat joints far more often then when I arrived. It’s because I’m longing for home. This living abroad thing has lost a lot of its sparkle.
Two more weeks…
I just got back from a wonderful trip to Beijing with Rick, his dad, and his little brother, who are vising China for the first time. We saw all the big sights: the Forbidden City, Tiananmen Square, the Temple of Heaven, the Summer Palace, and, of course the Great Wall. Rick and my dear friend Phillip, who lives in Beijing and loves the city, was the perfect tour guide and trip organizer. The weather was perfect, the food was delicious, and our legs and feet are still sore.
But now I want to talk about how the Summer Palace is actually just like Disneyland. This was my first time visiting the Summer Palace, and while the parallels between Chinese tourist sites and America’s theme parks have struck me before, never before have the similarities been so striking that I was inspired to write a blog post about it. But the longer I spent wandering around the national treasure and learning about it, the more the comparison clicked.
The most obvious parallel is how the two parks function today. The Summer Palace and Disneyland are both extremely popular tourist sites, always very crowded. You buy tickets to get admitted. It’s a designed space that transports you to a different world. There is plenty of foliage, and plenty of clean restrooms. Vendors and little shops abound in both locations, selling you low-quality food, hats, toys, and decorative trinkets at exorbitant prices. It’s a fun-packed day for the whole family. There is plenty to see and do; both the Summer Palace and Disneyland offer boat rides to guests. Each park makes billions of dollars in revenue each year by selling you silly hats, among other things.
But the really interesting parallels emerge when you look a little deeper, and look at what separates the Summer Palace from other Chinese historical tourist sites. Let’s look at the history.
The Summer Palace was built as a summer getaway resort for the Qianlong Emperor of the Qing Dynasty in 1750. It was then called the Garden of Clear Ripples. You see, Beijing gets extremely hot in the summertime. The treeless Forbidden City must have been blistering, swelteringly miserable in the days before air conditioning, as it lacked the shade, the water, and the breezes of nature. The Summer Palace was envisioned as a nature-filled paradise for the emperor and his family. In fact, Qianlong built the place for his mother’s 60th birthday, a getaway for them to enjoy together. Aww.
Walt Disney, similarly, conceived of Disneyland because of something lacking for his family. Attractions and entertainment was designed either for children, or for adults. Disney envisioned an amusement park where parents and children could play together, a safe and enclosed space full of fantasy, guarded from reality. He says he built the park in for his two daughters, so they would have a place to enjoy together. Aww.
The Summer Palace, and Disneyland have this in common: each was the dream of one powerful man who wanted to build a fun place, a retreat, for his family. And both of these powerful men–the Qianlong Emperor and Walt Disney–were just rich enough and driven enough to pull it off.
Then there’s the fact that both places are carefully designed, as destinations meant to look and feel like other places and other times.
The Summer Palace is an intricately designed space, meant to evoke the scenes of other places and other times. The grand lake in the middle, on which boats chug along, is man-made, dug out in five years, and meant to look like the gorgeous West Lake of Hangzhou, the city that Marco Polo once called the most beautiful in the world. A fake mountain was built from dirt dug out of the ground to make the lake. The Palace itself is an ancient Chinese castle. At the Summer Palace, the emperor and his family could feel like they were travelling around the world, or to a different time.
Walt Disney filled his park with three fake water bodies: a river designed to look like the Missisippi, representing the grandeur of Frontier America; a river designed to look like an African jungle; and a lake to look like a planned fixture of the cities of the future. He also built a fake mountain: the Matterhorn, a centerpiece of the park, designed to look like the mountain of the same name in Switzerland. The centerpiece was a castle, made to look like a medieval European castle. At the Disneyland, the Walt Disney’s daughters and all the park’s guests could feel like they were travelling around the world, or to different times.
The Qianlong emperor also added an entire fake shopping street to the entrance of the Summer Palace, designed to look like the shops of the river town of Suzhou, famous for its silk, and also considered to be one of China’s most beautiful cities. You could take a ride on a little river boat to get from from one end to another. It was shopping idealized, transported from another place and frozen in time.
Every Disney park features a Main Street USA, a shopping street designed to look and feel like a Main Street of a small US town at the turn of the 20th century. Little shops with Disney products surround you. You can go on a ride in a horse-drawn carriage to get from one end to another. You can even take a steam train, just like those from the turn of the century. It is shopping Disneyfied, transported from another place and frozen in time.
At the end of the day, both the Summer Palace and Disneyland are designed spaces, the realized dreams of powerful individuals, closed off completely from the real world, intended to provide a fun family getaway. They are full of features designed to look like other places and other times, but feel real. They both hold castles, mountains, and lakes, and idealized shopping streets within their walls. It’s striking how much they are alike.
The one major difference that I’ve avoided this entire time? Disneyland was built with private funds for the enjoyment of the public. The Summer Palace was built with public funds for the enjoyment of the emperor and his family, no one else. Before the Boxer Rebellion, the Empress Dowager, Cixi, redirected public funds to rebuild the navy toward expanding the Summer Palace for herself, infuriating the people. It was a big deal when the resort was finally opened to the masses to explore, more than 250 years after it was built.
Even though they’re building a Shanghai Disneyland resort, the Summer Palace will always be China’s original theme park, a reflection of the nation’s history and people. And tendency to buy silly hats.
As I finally told my boss, I figured it was okay to publicly announce that I’m heading back to the United States in early August! I’ll continue at my current job until the end of July, travel a bit, and then head home. For good. After a month or so at home in the Bay Area, I’ll be heading to Austin, Texas, where Rick and I will make our new home. I’m really excited about the move! The reason, in short, is that we really want to come home. We miss America. I think that’s all the justification we need.
When I tell people of our plans, I often get the questions, “Won’t you miss Shanghai?” or “Are you sad to be leaving so soon?”
My answer to the first question is, yes, of course I’ll miss it – the way you miss any place you have made your home, no matter how much it may drive you crazy. I’ve spent a year of my life in China, most of that in Shanghai, and parts of the new life I’ve formed here I’ll miss a lot. I’ll miss the friends I’ve made here. I’ll miss my neighborhood in the Xuhui district, where I can get fried chicken at not one but two very conveniently located outlets, and I’m surrounded by great and affordable restaurants. I’ll miss the durian and other exotic fruits unique to Asia, as well as the shopkeepers who know me by sight and smile whenever I stop by. I’ll miss the constant exposure to a culture so different from my own. I’ll miss feeling like I’m living in the city that the eyes of the world are fixated upon, as China’s rise continues to fascinate and befuddle the world.
The answer to the second question – am I sad to be leaving so soon – is no. A year is long time. The nuance of this city has sunk into my mind. I’ve observed, absorbed, and experienced to my heart’s content. I’m ready to come home, to the U.S. of A, where I can access YouTube and afford fancy cheeses. Where everybody speaks English. Where I can act in community theater again. Where I know the watermelons I buy won’t explode. Where I won’t need to worry about a visa. Where I can call my family during normal hours of the day. Where I can visit home, or visit my sister at school, or go to the Harvard Yale game without spending an entire month’s salary.
Also, I’m not sad to be leaving because I have a feeling Rick and I will end up back here one day – China, at least, if not Shanghai. This is the end of one chapter of our lives, but the book is far from over. With Rick’s fantastic Mandarin skills, and my functional Mandarin, we are prime candidates for a firm doing business in China to send abroad; and just about every firm in the US that sells anything is hoping to make its way to China, where growth prospects are some of the best in the world. I have one friend in Shanghai who is trying to move home and looking for a job, but every company he hears from wants to send him to China to run their operations here.
I don’t know when or why, but I’ve got a feeling we’ll be back. At the same time, unless there are huge changes in China’s government, we would never make China our permanent home. As the laws currently stand, we could never be citizens here, nor could our Children. With no Chinese blood in our families, we will forever be branded outsiders here, in some way or other. Which is fine, because we can always come home.
And we are coming home! Home again, home again – I’m counting down the days!
I tried durian, a tropical fruit grown in Southeast Asia, for the first time about a week ago. Rick is at home for his brother’s graduation, and so I’ve had quite a bit of extra time on my hands. Needing a break from watching episodes of The Wire, and craving a novel experience, I finally gave in to my curiosity and bought some durian pods at the local fruit stand.
I had always been reluctant to try it, because it’s famous for smelling really gross, like rotting vegetables. In some countries, it’s banned on public transportation because of the smell. It’s also extremely divisive: people either love it, or it makes them hurl. Alfred Russel Wallace, a British naturalist who wrote about eating the fruit in 1856, described it as “perfect,” and said its “most exquisite flavor is unsurpassed.” The Food Network chef Andrew Zimmerman, on the other hand, said it tastes like “completely rotten, mushy onions.” I had no idea what to expect.
What I experienced biting into its flesh was something akin to ecstasy. Everything about the fruit is difficult to describe, because it’s so unique. The scent, to me, is not altogether displeasing, but is certainly pungent. The texture is like creamy custard, like a less-dense avacado, with a dash of pulpiness like you would find in a citrus fruit (but is not acidic like a citrus fruit). The flavor is indescribable. It’s sweet, but not overly sweet, and its fatty for a fruit–five grams of fat per 100 grams, according to the wikipedia page. The fattiness adds a luscious, savory element. The flavor is truly indescribable. I refuse to even try. It’s one of the greatest things I’ve ever tasted.
Now durian haunts me. It’s all I think about, dream about. I know I shouldn’t overconsume it, especially as I now live a low-carb, no-added-sugar lifestyle (I’m convinced sugar and refined grains are the cause all the world’s chronic diseases; look up Gary Taubes). One durian pod is about half my daily carbohydrate allowance. ALso, it’s not cheap – 25 kuai for 2 pods, which are about the size of an avocado. And it makes your breath stink, a lot. (Lucky for Rick that he’s out of town!)
But I can’t stop. Other sugary treats that used to entice me seem like pig slop in comparison to the almighty durian, unless they include durian of course (like durian ice cream, which I got to try when I was in Hong Kong). Other foods I used to think were the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten have been downgraded in my mind to “very good but not as good as durian” status. Every time I eat it, it tastes better than the last time! How is that possible?!? Every time I buy it, the fruit stand lady knowingly chuckles at me with flashing eyes. She knows.
She knows I’m a junkie.
The most painful part about my addiction, however, is the knowledge that I won’t have easy access to this luscious fruit in the US. Most Americans have never even heard of it. I did some research and discovered you can sometimes find it frozen or canned in Asian supermarkets, but I’m sure it pales in comparison to the fresh stuff.
I dabbled in self-delusion for a day or two, thinking of ways I can cook durian into recipes so that when I’m home, I can open a durian themed restaurant to justify importing it fresh every day. Durian creme brûlée. Durian ice cream. Chocolate-covered durian. Durian pudding, durian cake, durian pie. Yesterday, I cooked up some durian with 2 tablespoons of butter and topped it with cinnamon, ate it hot. It was amazing, but not as good as the raw fruit by itself. The problem is that you can’t improve on it, which is why the restaurant concept is actually a terrible idea. What was I thinking?
I just need to enjoy durian while I can, for the next few weeks, and then kick the habit cold turkey. No more late-night runs. No more recipes. No more stinky breath. No more delusions. As much as I love it, it was not meant to be something I eat every day. I think the experience of eating durian on its own justifies coming to China. I will cherish the memories.