Loose Cans

Or as close as we can get. If we're not back in five days declare war.


In the meantime, your daily diversion.

Obviously we are not going to expect from Beijing Language and Culture University medical facilities on a par with, say, Columbia-Presbyterian. I am perfectly happy to let them gorge me on antibiotics for my sinus infection. But after a quick look at that slum they optimistically call a hospital, they are not coming anywhere near my intestines.

The Beijing air has given us all nasty summer colds--the blanket Chinese term is ganmao. Mike and I have both got something filthy and mean. After a positively ghastly night of sleep during which I was continually awakened either by the stopping up of my sinuses or the clenching of my intestines (this is simply not fair play), I was heading for class--a little late, I will concede--when I ran into my classmate, who herself was feeling equally down, and was told by the teacher to go to the hospital. Which is of course what you do when you need to see a doctor. That this place is located right next to my dorm is its main selling point. That is to say its only selling point. Between the buzzing flies, the peeling walls and the death-eyed shuffling old people, it does not inspire confidence. As it was, I was still willing to let them have a go at helping me with the unrelenting gastric difficulties I've had to deal with. Until the blood test, that is. I've had dozens upon dozens of blood tests in my life. I enjoy them. They stick the little butterfly needle in, there's a little twinge, and they squeeze the flaps and blood races up the little tube. I have never, however, had a blood test in which , in one motion, the woman whips a small--but not that small--razor blade out of a sheath and slashes your finger with it. Then, after you've registered what she's just done, and you're flailing your finger in the air, she yells at you to relax ("Fangsong! Fangsong!") and grabs your finger and starts to squeeze the blood out of it, which she sucks up with this long thin pipette. On the plus side (I just accidentally wrote "blood side"), the results are available in minutes. Turns out my blablabingbong levels are up--"abnormal." Yes! I always like it when I find out something is properly wrong with me. A) it means it's not all in my head, and B) it feels like an achievement. So it's a sinus infection. They gave me some antibiotics and sent me on my way. They give out antibiotics like hershey kisses here. Chow down, no, no, don't worry, there's no long-term risk to the entire human race. After that stunt with the razor, though, I decided that I wasn't about to trust them with my delicate insides. I'd told them I was having "la duzi" issues, but then I just told them I'd call my US doctor, as "he knows my problem better." I'll see what traditional chinese medicine can do, but I'm bringing Isaac with me. I know how to say, "my colon is diseased," but after that, I'm kind of at a loss. Why doesn't anyone want me to say "fountain pen" or "ice-sculpture" or "river-bank" or "ice lolly-pop" or any other the other magically useful new words this book is teaching me. No. Fucking teach me the names of my internal organs.

Though funny story, right? I looked up Colon before I came to China, and came up with the word maohao--which seemed to have no relationship to the word for intestines (chang2), or anything in common with digestion at all, but whatever. Suibian. Well, it turns out that maohao means Colon, the punctuation mark. I'd been telling people my : was diseased. The words turns out to be the very sensible jiechang, and I am set to rights.

They are fixing my air conditioner at least, which is good, because I am rather tired of it raining all over my desk. I'm hungry again.