From (near) Russia, with love.

One thing about China that I have managed to forget -- or at least push to the back of my mind -- is how every step out of the haven of my room is usually an (un)fortunate misadventure of some kind. Take, for example, my foray to go swimming yesterday. With the company of two other students, I made my brave way across campus towards this chemically-laden waterhole. Once there, our predictions about hidden loopholes involving money came to fruition -- particularly, we were all made to purchase ten-kuai bathing caps that were absolutely ridiculous, but nonetheless worn by all swimmers there.

We entered what appeared to be a changing room leading to the pool, but was instead of maze full of twisting corners and unnecessary crowds of people. We got sidetracked by far too many naked women, toilets, showers, and eventually a small body of water we were forced to wade through before actually reaching the pool. We had barely stepped into the pool area when a woman literally leapt out of the water and hurried towards us. Two other women followed her, one of them grasping -- what else? -- a digital camera. Apparently they take them to the pool when they exercise, too. We were forced to pose for at least five pictures with varying amounts of gestures and smiles and hand holding. Yes, I was wearing my swim cap at this moment -- I'm glad that that look of mine has been immortalized. One women insisted on a picture alone with my roommate, Beth, and proceeded to PAT HER BELLY. Zhen piaoliang! she cried to all of us. So pretty, she claims, simply because of our blinding pastiness widely displayed by our swimsuits.

Following this, we proceeded to spend forty minutes doing various quasi-laps ("quasi" because it was impossible to swim for long without running into people -- we usually managed half a lap. Why is this country so crowded? And why do all of its citizens like to swim at the university swimming pool?) and exercises. We were being watched by just about everyone there, but only one woman actually had a conversation with us -- she has three daughters in the U.S., and wants to come visit, but for the visa and airplane costs -- while the rest generally gave us a wide berth. The lifeguard spent most of his time frowning sullenly at us -- though that may be his natural expression -- and I certainly am glad no one was in distress, for he seemed to not care much about guarding life.

"But what is Harbin like?" you ask. "Outside of overly chlorinated swimming pools, that is. I hear there are many Russians."

Indeed, I reply, Harbin merits a small description before I can further relay any mishaps to you all. Truthfully, however, my days are so busy that I rarely leave campus -- and when I do, it is usually to the street behind my dormitory for 5-kuai noodles at a Xinjiang restaurant. My weekends are also jammed pack, as exhibited by an exhausting and ultimately useless trip to Jingpo Lake this past weekend, while this upcoming one involves some independent Mongolian prefecture. However, one day I spent wandering a pedestrian area of downtown, and Harbin has an architecture quite unlike other Chinese cities, of a distinct Russian influence. And yet, limited as I have been in my explorations, this is the only instance of the so-called strong Russian influence. Everywhere else is distinctly Chinese -- in that ugly, cinder-stone building kind of way.

And yes, it seems like every foreigner is Russian -- or Korean. Outside of the Americans in my program, of course. When I was buying water at the gym the other day, the man at the counter stared at me and asked, "Eluosi? (Russia?)" "Meiguo," I replied. America. This is the one city on Earth where I have been happy to insist on being American -- Russians are, in general, not popular with the Chinese here. And everyone first assumes I am Russian. Yet in general the people of Harbin seem a friendly bunch, though they will drink you under the table with all of their beer and constant Chinese toasting mastery and repeated cries of "Gan bei!"

As for my surroundings, Heilongjiang University (or Heida, as the students call it) is a fair distance away from the center of the city. And on certain days, the wind patterns allow the wonderful aromas of the nearby medicine factory's fumes to permeate the city. And if you, like me, find this slightly bothering -- don't worry. I've been told by at least two people now that the fumes aren't toxic...