Güd wrtr

(#17 in the Annie series)

So in a previous life, at a high school pool in a galaxy far, far away, I had a several-summers-long career as a swimming instructor, lifeguard and synchronized swim team coach. I often tell people that’s where I learned to teach, and it’s true. If you could keep 10 squirmy kids occupied on the side of the pool, each taking turns to push off and swim to you, and return them intact to their moms (it was all moms in those days) after a half hour, despite the fact that you’d been accidentally kicked/bitten/groped/spat at by those kids, then you were well on your way to a teaching career. If you wanted one.

I did not at the time.

I did, however, love to swim. My mom enrolled me in Greta Andersen’s swim school in Southern California, when I was 3. Mom recalls that I initially did not take to the water. Later I learned that kids at about 3 figure out that they can drown, and an innate fear takes over. Sometimes it’s best to let the kid wait a year or so and then attempt swimming lessons. Others, though, swim right through this phase and onto swim teams.

I was in the former category. But my mom, because she and my dad were avid water skiers, wanted to get her daughters acclimated to water as soon as possible. She remembers that the teachers at Greta Andersen’s (herself a former Olympic gold medalist) were a bit rough in their methods, plunking kids underwater, much to their surprise and, in my case, horror. We generally avoided that in my pool days, letting kids take their time, coaxing them to blow bubbles on top of the water and gradually going lower till they felt comfortable blowing those bubbles underwater.

Jan and Irene, duet partners in costume, circa 1974.

I don’t remember any of this, fortunately. By the time I got to Roseville High School pool, an 11-year-old joining the synchronized swim team, I’d completed all the Red Cross swimming lesson levels and was very comfortable in the water—more so than on land where I could be (still can be) quite klutzy. And though I was far from the best synchro swimmer on the Aqua R’s (for Roseville), I had a blast learning the underwater stunts and participating in water ballet routines to music, especially with my duet partner and good buddy, Irene Mahan. I spent my days as a water safety aide, helping the older instructors teach lessons, my nights on the synchro team, and, when I was 16, I became one of those instructors and assistant coaches myself.

Teaching was the furthest occupation from my mind. I wanted to be a Journalist. Preferably traveling the world and writing about exciting happenings. Teaching sounded like the dullest profession on the planet. Who would want to teach for a living?

Those who know me know the punch line to this joke: I do. And though I got my (small) day in the journalistic sun, working for small papers, a bigger one, one international news service and a magazine, I did not travel the world exactly, though I did get around the western U.S. a fair amount. And along the way I got to dust off those teaching swimming chops to teach a journalism class or two or sometimes four at a university and in community colleges, and I quite liked the teaching thing, after all. By 1993 I was a full-time professor at one of those community colleges, a job I still hold today.

I have a lot of (former) little kids (and some big ones) to thank for that at Roseville High School Pool in the mid-1970s. They taught me a lot about patience and meeting people where they are instead of where you think they should be.

It doesn’t matter if someone is of an age to be able to do a head-down crawl the length of the pool. If that someone is still afraid to put her head underwater, it ain’t gonna happen. It’s the teacher’s job to work (often slowly, with incredible patience) to help that someone get to a comfortable level in the water… for that someone. Everyone’s level is different.

Teaching, I still remind myself, is a process of beginner’s mind, as the zen practitioners say—remembering what it was like when you didn’t know how to do whatever it is you’re teaching. About not having expectations. About seeing the best in every student. About accepting students where they are in the moment you’re with them, knowing that can and will change. And then being patient with that, too.

This is harder than it sounds, as anyone knows who has tried to teach anyone else anything. Which is pretty much everyone. We are all teachers; we are all students.

==========

The great thing about watching Annie get in a swimming pool for the first time with Nikki and the next time with me was that we had no expectations of where she should be—and literally where we were was pretty fabulous. In the big pool at Liberté, the Macphersons’ huge apartment complex in Kowloon. Liberté’s pools are worthy of Hearst Castle, and actually, I think William Randolph would be envious of these pools. Though there is no huge statue of Venus rising from her shell, there is an indoor and an Olympic-sized outdoor pool, the latter of which has three waterfalls people can stand under and get a pounding massage. There is a long warm pool (not as hot as the hot tub) for soaking tired muscles. There are diligent young lifeguards who must have been pinching themselves to stay awake on their towers. It’s so quiet and peaceful in the mornings, I figured the heat and humidity must be lulling them to sleep.

We, on the other hand, were rarin’ to go. And by “we,” I mean Annie. Nikki had brought the only bathing suit among us, so we got Annie a red suit with white polka dots while in Guangzhou. I elected to stay dry and take photos, and I’m so glad I did. Because, well… look:

Annie took to the water like the proverbial fish. There was nothing about it she didn’t like, even laughing like crazy when Nikki took her under the huge waterfalls (after plugging Annie’s nose and covering her mouth). But we learned that Annie likes being dunked, doesn’t mind getting her head wet at all. And, like a lot of other little kids I saw in my swim-class days, she has to be reminded to close her mouth before she goes underwater… she’s laughing that hard.

Ayi Jan’s flip-flop feet on the edge of the warm pool.

Look at this pool, by the way. I stood there, taking photos, feet on the top step of the warm pool, torn between having pool envy and wanting to take photos. Good thing I didn’t have a suit. This would’ve been the stuff of dreams for my young synchronized swimming self. Irene and I would’ve had a great time doing our routines in this gorgeous pool.

Although the big pool was warm, Annie’s teeth began to chatter after a fairly short time in the water (this kid has absolutely no body fat). Fortunately, this complex has a warm pool behind the main pool, in addition to its actual hot tub, so Nikki took Annie in the warm pool with jets spouting water below the surface. I love the artfully placed heliconia hanging over the pool, too… yes, it was real.

In the warm pool, as we had hoped, not only was she a happy kid… Annie’s limbs also relaxed. When I took her in the water the next day (after borrowing Nikki’s suit), in less than ten minutes Annie’s legs uncrossed. Her arms, usually bent  at a 90-degree angle at the elbows, lengthened. We put her feet up to the warm jets, and she giggled as her feet relaxed. She did not want to leave that pool, and I couldn’t blame her. In the water, she’s weightless, free to move as she likes. Her bound-up body is no longer bound by spasms, made heavy by gravity. She floats like a winged thing riding a thermal high in the sky.

We had suspected warm water therapy would be good for Annie, and this was proof of that. Nikki and I each had Annie in the warm pool for a good half hour. We were prunes coming out of there, all wrinkly on our palms and bottoms of feet, but we had never seen a limp-noodle Annie before. Now we know that it’s possible to get her that relaxed, Nikki’s going to be looking for hydrotherapy for Annie in Sacramento, for sure.

Is this the sweetest photo of these two, or what? Might be my very favorite from the whole trip… mother and daughter, happy and relaxed in warm water.

Here’s wishing them many more sessions in warm pools and many warm moments like this one… in and out of the water.

The ceiling of the Guangzhou train station.

(#16 in the Annie series)

Our luggage at the front of the line.

At the Guangzhou train station, in the queue to go to the platform, we stand between two other sets of adoptive parents. (Wait, did I just make it sound as if I was a parent? No, no… just the auntie.) A husband looks at his sweating wife who is carrying a chubby baby in a tummy pack. The baby is sleeping, much to their relief. The wife had been a student in China a dozen years ago. Now they are back to adopt this child to take home to their other children.

This is a common theme, I’ve learned. Parents can’t stop at just one. Apparently adopting Chinese babies is like eating M&M’s. I understand why: These are the cutest children on the planet. But these parents are, like Nikki, adopting special needs kids. This, in my book, makes them extra-super humans. They are going to have challenges most parents don’t have. But they are also going to have extra-super joys, too.

For example: Eloise (above). Her father, named Brent, has come from North Carolina to adopt her. Eloise’s new mommy is at home with her three new siblings, one of whom was adopted from Africa. That was a nightmare scenario; it took them weeks to get through the red tape as judges and other officials tried to shake them down for more money. Brent’s wife ended up staying longer than planned to wait it out—five weeks total.

This time Brent has traveled solo to get Eloise. And though she is 5 and has Down Syndrome and allegedly speaks only Chinese, she does as she’s told when Brent nicely asks her in English to sit in her little blue stroller with her battery-powered fan. She has a smile that could melt iron. It’s a good thing she’s spoken for because after seeing her for five minutes, I was smitten. I’d have taken her home with me.

So all in all, a much smoother train experience, leaving Guangzhou. Yes, we had to find a lift to get us down to the platform, and Annie’s wheelchair didn’t fit down the aisle, so we had to park her at the back of one of the cars (not near our assigned seats). But a kind attendant let us move to another car where we could sit right in front of where the chair had to park. One attendant did suggest that we could stand for the three-hour trip in the space between the cars, but Nikki put her foot down at that. We got seats in a less-crowded car, and Annie spent part of the time in her chair and part of it lying down on two seats with Nikki. I sat in front of them, two seats all to myself. It felt quite spacious.

Nikki feeds Annie mango pudding on the train. Yum! (One of Annie’s new English words)

The darkening world rolled by again, in reverse this time, the mountains and rice paddies, the rivers and farms, the factories, a couple of quick stops at other stations. We were heading into night, and it felt far more peaceful returning than it had on the way out. All in all it was a much easier ride into Hong Kong than out of it, and I was reminded of one more difference between China and HK: On the train the attendants close the restrooms as the train enters HK territory because the waste is expelled directly onto the tracks. This is considered OK in China, not OK in HK.

By the time we got to the MTR (short Mass Transit Railway, and HK’s is one of the best subways in the world) station with Nikki pushing Annie and me pulling our two pieces of rolling stock, things felt familiar to me. It was Annie’s first ride on the subway, though, and since it was after 9 p.m., things were much quieter. Nikki, once again at home in the HK transit world again, easily found the platforms and right trains (I was still turned around) to take the MTR to Anne and John’s.

Riding the MTR (the mass transit railway) through Hong Kong to John and Anne’s.

Some people text on the subway; others take photos.

This time we both know the direction to head out of the station, walking the four-ish city blocks to the Macpherson’s Liberté apartment complex and head up to the 37th floor of Block 6. Anne and John greet three of us this time with great welcoming hugs, delighted to see Annie. They ask if we’re hungry, and though Nikki says she’s not, I’m starving (I’m always starving on this trip, though I figure I’ve lost a good 5 pounds by now). John goes to the kitchen and makes us a late dinner of scrambled eggs, toh-mah-toes and bacon. Perfect.

We each have our own rooms again, and I am, as I was before, captivated by the view out the window. I spend the first part of the night gazing out at the HK cityscape. When I was last in this room, we were two and had the whole trip ahead of us. Now we are three and almost done in Asia. We are almost on our way home.

Before I turn out the light, I see this on the small desk by the computer. One of them has been working here. John, I believe, leads Bible study at their church, The Vine, where they met Nikki years ago.

It says: “Your heart is purified by faith. Faith allows God to bless you.”

And it hits me that faith has been the theme of this journey. Nikki had faith in the process and in her ability to bring Annie home. I had faith in Nikki and Annie, both of them strong, can-do-anything people. Nikki and I both carry faith in, as I like to joke, all the gods and goddesses and ascended masters, as well as in our persistent, always-there companion spirits. We have felt their help and blessings every step of the way. We have had assistance when we needed it, sometimes when we didn’t know we needed it.

And I went to sleep looking out at the lights of Kowloon, Hong Kong, from the 37th floor, offering one of my favorite prayers to all who might receive it:

Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

Guanghzou’s rugby team is named The Rams after the local creation myth about five celestial beings riding into the city on five rams carrying sheaves of rice. Blessing the land, the rams turned to stone once the celestials left. Their statue is in Yuexiu Park in Guangzhou, which means “broad region.”

(#15 in the Annie series)

To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable. Faith means believing the unbelievable. Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.
—G.K. Chesterton
(a quote I carried in my travel journal throughout China)

“Tell the sky you don’t want it to rain.”

Nikki just said that to Annie. It’s 11:30 a.m. on the day we depart by train for Hong Kong. “Let’s hope for better weather in Hong Kong,” Nikki says to me. “Or at least in Hong Kong you can walk for miles and never go outside. We can show you the malls and the glitzy side of Hong Kong.”

It is, after all the rainy season here, and one expects this. But we’ve had days and days of blue skies, very little pollution (I was prepared for a lot more) and no rain until yesterday, the 12^th day of the trip.

Nikki and Annie are sitting in the big chair by the window of room 1140 in the Guo Men Hotel in Guangzhou, Nikki’s feet on the ottoman, and she and Annie are chatting, mostly in Chinese, though Nikki is working on English, too. She has been asking Annie, “Where is my nose?” in English, hoping Annie will point to it or at least swing her clenched fist on her bent arm in that direction. Sometimes she does, but Nikki can’t tell if that’s on purpose.

The dumpling people preparing breakfast.

We have just come back from breakfast out—dumplings from one of the little shops on a nearby alley where Nikki has bought a lot of our meals. (Here, it’s not Chinese takeout; it’s just takeout.) Dumplings in China are a breakfast food, and the family that owns this shop stands outside. A woman puts a bit of pork mixture into soft pillows of dough and folds them so precisely you could mail them. She puts the dumplings into circular bamboo baskets, and a man puts each basket into the steamer. I couldn’t tell how long it takes to cook, but I imagine not long, and you have fresh, steaming dumplings. You pick them up with your chopsticks (no forks or knives here), and you transfer that warm bundle to your mouth, which explodes with happiness because THIS is what dumplings should always taste like. This has completely redefined “dumpling” for me. This is change-your-life food, and it is, without question, one of the best things about my Chinese experience.

This time we thought we’d eat out… side. The shops in this alley have a number of outdoor tables, but a pourdown swept us inside where we had a good view of the proceedings (dumpling making and buying) on the covered walkway outside the shop. As we watched people hurry by with their umbrellas up, I told Nikki that in Hawaii people say that if you don’t like the weather, just wait ten minutes. It took about 15, but that pourdown passed. It’s the tropics here, too, and Nikki says that in the summer rainy season it can pour all day.

Making Nikki’s macchiato, which was supposed to be an Americano.

After breakfast we knew Annie would enjoy a good, long stroll, so we walked over to Starbucks, not far from our hotel. Nikki had been craving good coffee, so in my newfound I-can-order-in-China spirit, I tried to order Nikki an Americano—mostly coffee and a little milk—but instead, I ended up with a macchiato—mostly milk and a little coffee with a caramel drizzle on it. Oops. The lady asked me in English, too, “a little coffee and milk?” and I said yes, and obviously, I had it backward, though I thought I had it right. But Nikki is nothing if not a good sport, and she drank it. Annie wanted to try the macchiato, too, so she got a sip, which she seemed to like, but she really enjoyed the cinnamon cake we got her. (New middle name for this kid: Annie CAKE! Cardoza.)

I had the green tea latte, which Nikki says is different here than at home. I quite liked it.

We have our room at the Guo Men Hotel till 3:30 p.m. today. Elsie the translator will meet us in the lobby at 3:45 to go in the van with us to the train station, which is very nice of her. She will also bring Annie’s passport with the U.S. Visa in it, which is crucial and the thing we’ve been waiting for, the reason we’re still in Guangzhou.

But in between the morning pourdowns, we walked under blue sky, fat clouds and sun. After we’d crossed a major road with eight lanes of traffic moving in two directions, we found a nice little narrow garden area where Nikki pushed Annie, and I followed, taking photos. “The Chinese love their gardens,” Nikki says, taking an opportunity to plant something green wherever possible, and this is a particularly nice one.

The walkway was still damp, which made if feel as if the humidity was rising through our feet, and I got a whiff of Hawaii. Some of the same gigantic ape (elephant ear plants, pronounced “ah-pay”) and philodendron flourish in both places, though I imagine they have different names, maybe even different varieties, in China.

An after-showers stroll in Guangzhou.

It struck me after we came back to our room after our stroll, as we crammed our belongings into our bags, that today we leave China, all of us possibly never to return. We will spend the last part of our trip as we spent the first part: in Hong Kong staying with Nikki’s friends, Anne and John MacPherson. It’s so nice of them to host three of us in their tiny apartment. But for now we still have to leave Guangzhou, maneuver another train station, feed and change Annie on the train, get the subway to John and Anne’s. I cannot think of all that at once. As my mother likes to say, “You can only eat an elephant a bite at a time.”

My attention comes back to the two people sitting in the big chair by the window. “Look at you, Farty McFarterson,” Nikki says to Annie, who’s laughing and passing gas at the same time. “You’re crop dusting me here.”

I love this mother/daughter bonding time. This, to me, is what this trip is all about, the essence of it all—these two becoming a family. I am so fortunate to have witnessed and recorded some of it.

There’s no doubt that this has been a wrenching experience for Annie, leaving everything she knows. Though we’re sure, as did the people who cared for Annie, that she’ll have better access to all kinds of therapies and opportunities in the U.S., it’s not gonna be easy. It hasn’t been so far—we have a few upset/crying sessions a day, sometimes when she’s hot or hungry or tired and other times… well, we can’t tell why. It doesn’t matter.

The point is that now we are truly on our way home, back to the place Annie will call home—with a pool in her condo complex and a kitty, where she will go to school and have physical therapy and become the best version of herself she can be. Whatever that is, she has the very best mom for the ride, one who understands better than most this incredible transition from one side of the world to another, who adores her, who will always be there for her, even on a gray day when the sky rains.

Nikki and Elsie go over Annie’s final documents for the journey to her new home.

Elsie meets us in the lobby after Nikki checks us out of the Guo Men Hotel. The van driver arrives and parks in the street. Why the parking lot attendants don’t let him into their lot baffles us; they’ve been helping us for days lift Annie and her chair up and down the ten steps that lead to the hotel. They know what we’re up against here. China.

It’s a little precarious getting Annie into the back of the van with all the traffic going by. Nikki is concerned about whether the chair will fit. But it does, fortunately. After about a 20-minute drive Elsie directs the van driver to the back entrance of the Guangzhou train station where the fast train to Hong Kong leaves. Elsie escorts us to a service elevator that clearly is not marked for the general public (bless her) and waits with us about a half an hour till we go through the glass doors to the waiting area. It’s warm, but (thankyouthankyouthankyou) not nearly as hot and humid as the Changsha train station.

I leave Nikki with the luggage chatting with Elsie and other adoptive parents in the waiting area and, to avoid a meltdown, I wheel Annie around a large rotunda, in relative coolness. She stays happy. At one point I park her chair under a sign next to the universal symbol of someone in a wheelchair that says in English and Chinese, “Barrier-free passage.”

“Look at you!” I tell her as I step away to take her photo there. This, to me, is a mantra for Annie’s future life. Of course, there’s no such thing as a truly barrier-free passage in the U.S. either, just as there isn’t in China. But on this trip we have spent a lot of time looking for just that—places without barriers that make it easier for people with mobility issues to get around. I think guiltily of the loft where my writing groups meet in Sacramento with its narrow wooden stairs (two sets of them), the only way to get in that room. I love that space, but it is by no means barrier-free. Still, I have found other ways to remove barriers, especially in writing, and giving people the freedom and confidence to write what needs to be written, sing their own songs, make their own way.

Annie has given me a new reason to think about this—not that I haven’t before—but now I’m looking for places wide enough for her chair, for the lift as opposed to the escalator, for (and I love this term) the barrier-free passages through life… for all of us.

In the photo, Annie has her head back, her mouth open in a wide chortle. I look at it now and think, “This is what I wish for you, my dear, the fewest possible barriers going forward. All the possibilities. Clearly you will run up against obstacles. But you and your mama and those who love you will do their best to find ways around them. You will thrive and grow and become the best possible you in this new place, with new people.”

I want to tell her: “We are not perfect, we Americans, not by a long shot. We are taking you back to a country deeply troubled by racial divides and outbreaks of violence while we’ve been gone, even in our own city, at our state Capitol. The Chinese must imagine that you are going to a very dangerous place. We don’t see it that way, of course. But we have to believe that you will have a better life, an easier life, a life with more promise than you had in Changsha. You are in the hands of a very good mama with family and friends who will work hard to give you a place of peace and healing and safety, where you can grow and thrive.”

Let the barriers come down for Annie and for everyone who has them placed in their way. Let us all find that place of peace and healing and safety. Amen.

A patron’s bag at Starbucks, Guangzhou.

Me: pre-hair wash… aka, my usual hair.

(#14 in the Annie series)

So in China, besides going for a foot massage, which is more like a mostly clothed, all-over massage that leaves you like (pardon the cliché, but it’s so true here) a wet noodle, Nikki says a hair wash will change your life. Or at least make you feel better. It’s an inexpensive way to restoreth the soul, allowing you to emerge with clean hair, a well-massaged head, neck and shoulders, and blow-dried hair that makes you look like an entirely new person.

So on our final afternoon in Guangzhou, Nikki and I took turns going for a hair wash so one of us could stay with Annie.

Nikki and various female friends living and working in China used to get themselves a good hair wash on a regular basis. It feels good and doesn’t cost a lot, so why not? Yet every time Nikki has had this done, she says the stylist, who is always an incredibly thin young man, comes at her with a round brush and a blow dryer, determined to straighten her lovely curly hair. I, too, have curly hair and, after years of fighting it, I’ve embraced it. In fact, on this trip, I’ve been washing my hair and then letting it air dry, finger combing the curls as they pop up. I have to say that I think it’s kinda cute.

So I was curious to see what a thin, young male stylist would do to my hair. The hair wash that used to cost Nikki and her friends 15 RMB (about $2 U.S.) is now 35 RMB, which is about $5 U.S.—in Guangzhou anyway. I thought it was a bargain for a very nice head, neck and shoulder massage, let alone the shampoo and blow dry.

The hair washers in pink.

But, oh, what a hierarchy in the salon. The hair washers are all young women who, at this place, wore short pink skirts and short-sleeved jackets over white or black camisoles. One could not miss the fact that these young Chinese women had bigger chests than mine. Nikki had earlier pointed out to me while walking past a “palace of beauty” that Guangzhou is the plastic surgery capital of southern China, and that it’s considered essential for young women to have (to quote the wild and crazy guys of the late 1970s “Saturday Night Live” skits) big, American breasts. Clearly, every hair washer in the place had had her augmentation. I wondered if that was a requirement for employment.

But boy, do these young women know their stuff. They have fingers of steel and, since I was alone and no one spoke English, I could not figure out how to say, “Lighten up, wouldja?” The woman thumbing and digging into my skull would occasionally say, “OK?” and because I didn’t know how to say “gentler” and I’d forgotten how to say “no”—and I only knew those words in Mandarin and they speak Cantonese in Guangzhou—I just said “OK.” My head kind of ached in a good way when she stopped, though, and the sore spots I hadn’t known were there until she mashed them were not as sore. Maybe, I thought, there’s something to this tough-love massage, which I am not used to.

Then she took me to sit in a chair before a mirror for the head massage and the comb out (raking the head with a wooden comb—rather nice, that part). That took a good 20 minutes. And then he came to stand behind me, looking down at my head (perhaps taking in my graying strands) with a funny look on his face. This young male stylist (photo below) was not as flashy as one of the other young men in the salon, obviously a Stylist of Note in his bright yellow pants and turquoise tennis shoes whose hair hung down one side of his face in an asymmetrical way (it’s a look). But he took to my head with a small round brush and a blow dryer with an intense look on his face rather like a concert pianist. He was going to Tame That Hair.

And he did, though it took him about 20 minutes, pulling on the hair to straighten it as he dried it, layering the top with a side part like some of the guys at my high school wore in the 1970s. In fact, by the time he was done, I could have passed for one of those guys. I blinked at myself in the mirror, amused. I flashed him a grin, took photos as he worked and afterward, which did not make him smile. When he was finished, he all but dropped the brush as if it were a microphone and stalked away like Mick Jagger onstage.

This was the result:

I think the boyish look is funny for an about-to-be 58-year-old woman. Nikki had come back with her curly tresses tamed, too, and joked that because of the humidity they’d be back to curly before she went to bed. I was hoping mine would, too, because, as I said, I’ve embraced my naturally curly hair of many shades (nearly 50 of them gray). I didn’t want to dis the stylist’s work, but I couldn’t wait till morning when I’d shower myself into my usual look.

The head massage, though? For the first time on our trip, I slept like a log that night, even on the hard Chinese bed atop my little pillow padding, my scalp tension-free at last.

That young woman in pink with the enhanced gazongas who spoke only Cantonese did me a huge favor. Though I thanked her at the time in the best way I knew how—with a smile and a “shay-shay,” the Mandarin pronunciation of “thank you”—I wish I’d have been able to go back and given her a hug. My head with its boyish hairstyle felt lighter than it had since we began this trip. And, I have to say that for once, I did not mind thinking of myself as an airhead.

(#13 in the Annie series)

The day before we left Guangzhou Nikki asked Elsie, our translator, what Annie’s Chinese name means in English. It’s:

Long Xin Zi

We knew that Long is her last name, but Elsie told us that it means “dragon,” for the year Annie was presumed to be born, 2009. Xin means “joyfulness,” Elsie said, and Zi means “purple.”

In translation, her name would be:

Dragon Joyfulness Purple

But to turn it around English-style, she is:

Joyful Purple Dragon

Of course, Aunt Jan had to go on Amazon, right there in Guangzhou, and locate a soft purple dragon, which was easily found. Pretty cute one, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was made in China, like Annie. I knew it would be waiting for Annie when she got to Sacramento.

Annie and Nikki in Guangzhou.

Joyful Purple Dragon had an interview at the U.S. Consulate in Guangzhou today, around the corner and down the block from our hotel. Well, her new mama did the talking, and dealt with paperwork and heard details like after she goes to the U.S., Annie cannot use her Chinese passport again. She will be officially American, and the Chinese will no longer recognize the passport they just issued her here. It’s a one-time usage, that little red passport, and tomorrow, Elsie will deliver Annie’s new blue U.S. passport, so that on July 2, when she gets off the plane and goes through customs in San Francisco, Annie will be a U.S. citizen. Just like that.

As if it were that easy. As if Nikki hasn’t been working on this process for years, raising money and setting up everything so she could travel here to retrieve a little girl she met years ago when she volunteered at an orphanage and a hospice for dying children, the hospice that took Annie in and saved her life.

Classic Chinese broom and transport.

But we are about to leave Guangzhou after Annie’s passport and visa arrive tomorrow, taking the fast train back to Hong Kong, going through Chinese customs and then Hong Kong customs. This is the beginning of the journey home. We’ll stay for two days with Anne and John Macpherson, then make the long plane trip to California. Like so many of her countrymen and women before her, Annie will cross the great Pacific Ocean to land in San Francisco to begin her life as an American.

Annie saw the U.S. consulate for the first time with me a couple of days ago. It was a Sunday, and Nikki and Elsie had gone out to find medication for Annie. It turned out that The Lighthouse did not give Nikki all of Annie’s meds when we went to visit, and her seizure medication is an important one. I offered to take Annie for a walk in a direction we had not gone before, so Nikki and Elsie could locate the right medication in (and this is what took them to five different locations, including a couple of hospitals) the right dosage.

We headed out to the big building (above) where Annie had her medical appointment the morning after we arrived in Guangzhou. It seemed like weeks earlier, when it had only been a couple of days. I parked her in the Sunday-quiet walkway outside the building to take her photo, this small person surrounded by such a big structure, such a big world.

It turned out that the U.S. consulate was across the street from the medical building, though I didn’t know that until we’d walked around a corner and saw the words emblazoned on a nondescript building behind a tall fence: U.S. Consulate General. On weekdays dozens of Chinese line up outside the consulate, hoping to get temporary visas to come to the U.S. for work or school or to marry. But on Sunday all was quiet on that western front.

I was surprised on that quiet Sunday, pushing Annie alongside the consulate fence, to find myself with an actual lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. It was, as usual, sweltering under the bright blue day with no breeze. The American flag hung limp as a dishrag on its pole outside the consulate. Still, I thought, that’s a bit of home. That limp piece of red, white and blue is tangible evidence of my people. It’s not a perfect country, but it’s mine, and there’s something about being very far from home that made me want to salute that flag, to say that yes, I am proud to say that I’m an American. It’s something many, many Chinese would love to be, or at least many of them would love to spend time in my country. And this little girl, her mama and I get to go back to that place we call home.

The spaceship-like Guangzhou Opera House

Annie and I continued on our way, crossing the street to walk by the Guangzhou Opera House, which looks like a huge, misshapen spaceship that hosts world-class performers. It was designed by Zaha Hadid to look like a “double pebble,” it says on its website, and was completed in 2010 at a cost of about $200 million (U.S.).

The Guangzhou Opera House looks spaceship-py from this side, too.

We strolled by a basketball court where, as in our own country on a weekend morning, small boys ran around tossing balls toward seemingly out-of-reach baskets.

Next to the basketball court sat the impressive Guangzhou No. 2 Children’s Palace where many kids and parents swarmed in for arts activities, including piano lessons, I deduced from all the pianos behind glass on one side of the building.

We saw the 712-foot lattice telecommunication tower (Guangzhou Tower) that has observation platforms on floors 107 and 108. Nearby is the Guangdong Olympic Stadium, which holds 80,000 people for football matches (soccer to us Yanks). Very impressive architecture compared to the modest U.S. consulate.

The Guangzhou Tower next to the Guangdong Olympic Stadium next to the Opera House.

But I was OK with that. I liked that the Americans weren’t trying to show off in this city of super-tall, unusually shaped buildings. And by the time we walked back by the consulate, there was a breeze. The flag unfurled and waved at us.

U.S. Consulate, Guangzhou, Guangdong Province.

“That’s gonna be your flag now,” I said to Annie. “Land of the free. Home of the brave. Like you, who are very brave. In America you can be anything you want to be and live anywhere you want to live.”

This is not possible in China, I had learned. Most people live their whole lives in the city, as well as the province, in which they were born. Translator Elsie, for example, would love to live someplace else, but to do so, she needs a document from her hometown, which she has to travel there to get. And she can’t travel out of Guangzhou. Chinese Catch-22.

I didn’t try to explain to Annie why there was also a rainbow flag in a window of the consulate or point out the huge banner announcing that it was June, Pride month in the U.S. My heart swelled a bit with—yes—pride for that bold move on the consulate’s part.

“Good thing it’s behind a fence,” Nikki told me later. “The Chinese hate that idea. Not long ago the president of China said that there were no gay people in China.”

Joyful Purple Dragon naps.

And this is one more reason I am grateful to live in the land of liberty, though that liberty has not always been applied equally. It still isn’t. But we’re getting there. Ten years ago—heck, three years ago—I bet no U.S. consulate was flying a rainbow flag in June, especially in China. This one is now, as I imagine others are, too. Progress comes in inches, not feet.

And when I looked down at her again, I saw that Joyful Purple Dragon had fallen asleep on our morning stroll. I realized that this child will grow up with her Chinese heart and a blue American passport. I’m sure her mama will put away JPD’s red passport and her adoption papers for her to look at when she’s older and tell her the story again of how she came to be her mama’s daughter, Rosie Suzanne Cardoza—known now as Annie—who will always carry Long Xin Zi inside her.

Going for a walk in the more accessible Tianhe district of Guangzhou.

While waiting for her paperwork to be completed in Guangzhou, Annie enjoys listening to a story on the iPad.

(#12 in the Annie series)

Guangzhou was at the center of the massive tea trade that existed between China and Europe during the 19th century.
—Wikipedia entry

The thing about adoption in China is that you end up waiting. For days. After her medical appointment and initial paperwork in Guangzhou, Annie and her entourage had to wait for three days for their interview at the U.S. Consulate and, assuming all went well, to obtain Annie’s U.S. visa.

In the meantime, we took twice-daily walks around the Tianhe distric near our hotel, getting out to see what we could see. Nikki wanted to make sure I got to do some “fun stuff” in China, too, and, knowing how much I love tea, she took me to a tea shop on a side street not far from our hotel. “This city is all about tea,” she said, and later, when I looked it up, she was, of course, right. The largest wholesale tea market in the world with more than 1,000 tea vendors (some report 3,000 vendors) is in the Fang Cun district of Guangzhou. We didn’t make it there, but the tea shop Nikki knew provided a sweet experience.

Tea was the main economic reason the British commandeered the province they called Canton beginning in the 1700s. (They had to rename it? They couldn’t pronounce Guangdong, the province’s actual name?) There was a huge warehouse district in Guangzhou that for centuries was known for its tumultuous tea trading that resulted in nefarious dealings with shady characters. The phrase “all the tea in China” certainly applies here, though tea is grown in many parts of China. And, according to one book on tea, the Brits introduced tea production as well as consumption to India to compete with the Chinese monopoly. It’s been big business for centuries.

The tea lady and her son.

The tea shop where we sampled a half dozen different blends turned out to be owned by a young woman and her husband, who had their little three-year-old boy in the shop. “Shop” is a generous term, though it’s tidy and friendly—it’s one smallish room with three walls lined with shelves on which there are some nice ceramic teapots and cups. There’s a longish table set up with three small stools in front, which is where you sit to sample tea brewed and poured into tiny cups by the tea lady. If you like what you taste, you can buy some, but that’s not required.

The tea lady speaks some English, which was nice, though she and Nikki spoke quite a bit in Chinese, too. When she beckoned us to sit opposite her at the low table, she presented a list of a dozen different kinds of tea, from which we could choose and sample.

We started with tie guan yin, one of the great classes of tea, which is known, according to the list, “for its cancer preventative and intelligence stimulating properties.” It’s a very mild tea, very pale at first. I learned that Chinese tea is properly prepared by pouring more water over the tea, which darkens with each pour. The tea lady also used a specific pot for a specific tea and began the procedure by pouring hot water over the pot, which apparently, if I correctly understood the tea lady’s pantomime, makes the pot smooth and lovely over time. She used very little tea to scoop into the pot and strained it with a ceramic strainer before pouring it into a clear glass container. The colors of the different teas ranged from flaxen to the color of a coconut husk. One was the palest green. From there, she poured it into our cups and hers.

All the tea was wonderful and, like noodles and dumplings, has set a new standard for those things for me. We tried da hung pao, also an oolong, which is supposed be an anti cancer tea, help with reduction of cholesterol and blood fat, memory enhancement and lowering blood pressure. Nikki says oolong tea works so well for removing bacteria and oil that she’s used it in place of dish soap. She also says that you never know which of these attributes might be true and which are hooey. But I don’t care. I love this tea.

Especially the pu’er (or pu-erh) tea, which is a variety of aged and fermented dark tea from the province of Yunnan that gets darker with each pour but has no caffeine, and is, according to the sheet (and I’m quoting exactly as it was written in English):

• modest nature, warming stomach
• conducive to lose weight, nourish and beautify the face
• serving as an aid to sleeping

But my favorite was the delicate rose tea, which I’ve had before, which stays very pale, getting a bit more green with each pour but doesn’t take on a rose color. In fact, the tea lady said, if it does get pink, it’s been artificially colored. You can see the benefits of rose tea in the photo above.

Also we learned that, ideally, rose tea, green tea and tie guan yin are best kept in the fridge; pu’er, white and English teas can be kept at room temperature.

White tea.

Nikki loves white tea, and so do I, and we learned that the most expensive white tea has only the newest, whitest leaves. Other white teas are blends of white teas have green leaves in it, too. White tea is of “benefit for the stomach, dispelling damp, abating fever, brining down a deficiency fire and eliminating pathogens. Colder and young people are strongly recommended to have a regular drinking of pekoe tea to protect the eyes and strengthen the body.”

Chrysanthemum tea only takes one flower (right) to make a lovely small pot.

I bought a pretty big bag of white tea, which we will share, and Nikki bought a small plastic container of chrysanthemum tea (which turns a lovely yellow using only one blossom) and is good for dispelling wind and stimulating saliva and reducing thirst. That last one amused Nikki. “Well, yeah,” she said, “you’re drinking it.” My favorite note about the chrysanthemum tea says, “Computer fanatics are recommended to have a regular drinking of green tea and chrysanthemum tea.” I have no idea why.

I also bought three lovely ceramic tea containers. In all, I spent 800RMB, which surprised Nikki when I told her (she’d gone down the street to get us lunch to take back to the room). That’s about $119, not inexpensive, but lovely tea from a kind tea lady who asked polite questions about Annie and told me about their 6-year-old daughter, who was at school that day. Summer vacation is about to start—it’s two months long here—and I imagine she’ll have both kids with her in the shop, their daughter and their energetic boy who wants to ride his scooter, and whose father played with him as we sampled tea.

The tea lady’s husband and their son.

The word for “family” is ohana in Hawaiian, and that feeling of ohana is very present in China. The sense of family (which typically includes friends, too) feels very Chinese to me—indeed, is universal—and it’s been lovely to see parents who clearly cherish their children, like the Tea Lady and her husband, who are no longer limited by law to having only one. We have felt that everywhere there we’ve encountered children, including the orphanages. “Family means not being left behind or forgotten,” as they say in the movie “Lilo and Stitch” (also set in Hawaii). I was happy to help support a young family obviously working hard to earn their living.

And I’m going home with not all, but some of the tea in China, which will remind me of this place every time I sip it with my ohana in my very far away home in California.

After the tea shop and lunch, cake at Starbucks!

(#11 in the Annie series)

What girl doesn’t like new clothes?

Aunt Jan was hoping the opportunity would arise to stroll into a Chinese kids’ clothing store (or two) with Nikki and Annie and have them pick out some new clothes. Though her new Hello Kitty suitcase arrived with two scrapbooks about her life in China (the most precious things, for sure), Annie’s clothing was rather… well, haphazard. Nikki says the orphanage dresses the kids in whatever’s handy that (sorta) fits them, which is understandable.

But as Nikki also said when she saw the clothes Annie came with: “Are you kidding me with this?” In her new pink Hello Kitty suitcase were three well-worn boys’ T-shirts, one with a cartoon character toting two large guns and a pair of way-too-big pants.

Her special going-away outfit, which we think was lovingly chosen (and perhaps purchased) by Annie’s favorite ayi (caretaker auntie) consisted of long turquoise leggings, a sleeveless white top with flowers (rather pretty) and pointy-toed party sandals with a sparkly flower on them.

Nikki says the Chinese love their bling, and we do see a lot of it here. There’s nothing wrong with that—for Annie, though, it doesn’t make sense. The day after Nikki picked up Annie, Nikki went to a children’s clothing shop down the street from our hotel and found simple pink sandals with one strap around the ankle and one over the toes to allow more freedom of movement for Annie’s long toes. The party shoes definitely didn’t have much toe room.

Still, we later learned at The Lighthouse that Annie’s ayi chose the sparkly sandals, so that makes them special. This is the woman who frequently cared for Annie and who also cared most for Annie. We were so touched by her obvious affection and concern for Zuh-Zuh (I’m spelling her Chinese nickname phonetically). She did not look at Annie as just another mouth to feed—she clearly adored Annie—which endeared the ayi to us.

The problem was that Nikki had taken one of the party shoes with her when she bought Annie’s more practical sandals. Without meaning to, she left the party shoe at the store. She hoped no one would notice, but Annie’s ayi saw the new shoes when we went back to The Lighthouse. Only one of the party shoes survives, but Nikki didn’t say that, of course.

So it was clear that, as well as new shoes, new clothes were also in order. Nikki brought a few things, including new jammies, with her from Sacramento. But she’d guessed at sizes. Annie is very slender and long, so some of those clothes didn’t work all that well either.

Yesterday on our afternoon stroll (Annie loves getting out to look around, and who can blame her?) in Guangzhou, we shopped. This is a lovely district of brick sidewalks lined with mango trees), we found a Family Mart, a chain that sells kids’ clothes. Nikki, who is a champion bargain bin shopper, dove into one piled high with sale summer clothes and began finding possibilities. And here’s what I loved: She showed her selections to Annie so she could offer her opinion. Annie was delighted to say “good” (“hao) or “not good” (“bu hao”) in Mandarin, and, I was amused to see, had definite likes and dislikes.

I found a couple of cute T-shirts I thought would look good on Annie, but she nixed them. Not a problem; it was fun to discover what she likes… shades of pink, it turns out, and a red polka dotted bathing suit. (We hope to swim at John and Anne’s apartment complex pool in Hong Kong.) And, for the first time in many years, Aunt Jan got to buy someone little girl clothes.

I don’t mind saying that when my niece Lauren was born on my 29^th birthday, July 30, 1987, I greeted her with, “I’m your Aunt Jan. You’re gonna love me; I’m gonna buy you things.”

Aunt Jan and Lauren a few years ago… and a bunch of years ago at Disneyland, too. (Photo by Dick Schmidt)

I did buy her things, though I hoped she would love me for other reasons. Turned out she did (still does) and her brother Kevin, too, who came along a couple of years later, and I bought him stuff, too. I liked buying Kevin clothes, but he was far more interested in toys, especially the Big Loader with its skip loader, dump truck and tractor. Lauren had more to say about what she wanted to wear (dresses!) from the time she was about 2. I quickly learned to ask her opinion when buying things, and she was happy to give it. (And by the way, Happy Almost 29^th Birthday, Lauren! You’re as young as I was when you arrived!)

Annie, on the other hand, has been mostly dressed in boys’ hand-me-downs. Nothing wrong with that, but it turns out that she really loves girl clothes. At the store in Guangzhou she really liked a sweet white sleeveless top with cherries on it as well as a pair of flamingo shorts. Her taste ranges, in other words.

Annie seems to like pinks and purples best.

We came back to the same store the next day because… well, there was more shopping to be done and (hello!) GREAT SALE! As Nikki was going through the bargain bin again looking for shorts, Annie’s eyes were riveted to a pair of dress sandals with sparkly silver on them and the word LOVE across each toe in large letters. Not really appropriate daily footwear, like the sparkly sandals, but Nikki, who scored big points for being Good Sport Mama, tried one on Annie. I held up Annie’s head and Nikki held up her foot so she could see the sandal. Big grin. She loved it.

Nikki sighed and asked a clerk for the other sandal, which took awhile since the clerks, who, the day before, had hovered around us like bees, we’re now equally aggressively ignoring us. Nikki noted that Sunday is their restocking day, and we customers were in the way. While the clerk was locating the other shoe, I spotted a pair of Minnie Mouse plastic clogs in blue and pink and showed them to Annie. She brightened. Nikki slipped one on, and success—Annie’s long toes fit nicely without being crunched in them. More practical footwear.

The clerk returned with the fancier sandals in a box. Big moment of decision. Nikki held up one fancy sandal and one Minnie clog for Annie and asked her which one she preferred, adding that she could only have one pair. There was a pause; we could hear the wheels turning in her head. Much to our surprise, she chose the Minnie clog.

“I figured she’d go for the bling,” Nikki said. “That’s very Chinese.”

“It’s very American, too,” I added, thinking of my mom, the Sweet Adeline, who loves her bling. If it sparkles or is in the rhinestone family, so much the better. Nothing wrong with that.

But in this case we were all about the practical as well as pretty—shirts with wide necks and snaps to fit over Annie’s head and shoulders, since she can’t lift her arms to easily put on shirts. Shorts with trim waists so she doesn’t lose her drawers when she’s picked up or moved.

So Aunt Jan happily bought a pile of tops and shorts on sale and one pair of Minnie clogs to add to Annie’s growing wardrobe. The hand-me-down, boy T-shirts were on their way out. But the one sparkly party shoe left from the pair Annie arrived in will go home with her.

“It’s her Cinderella slipper,” I told Nikki, “the one that got left behind at the ball. The one with all the love in it.”

Nikki liked that, both of us thinking of Annie’s ayi who bought those shoes and put them lovingly on Annie’s feet the last day Annie was in her care, who then pushed her into a reception room at the Civil Affairs Center and presented Annie to her new mama. Who will take her far away, to become American, go to school and have physical therapy and new friends and a whole new life. One with a lot of pink clothes and shoes, too, and, quite likely at some point, some fancy new party shoes.

One of Annie’s new outfits and her new pink sandals on the floor in the background.

Best way to eat a banana with a spoon: out of its own cup! Annie and Nikki in Guangzhou.

 (#10 in the Annie series)

Wherever you go, go with all your heart.
—Confucius (whose real name was Kong Qui)

More than 30 embassies and consulates from all over the world have offices in Guangzhou, according to Wikipedia, many of them in the Tiahne district, and the U.S. consulate is the only one of five U.S. consulates in China that processes adoption visas. So all Americans adopting a Chinese child come through this city. Including us.

Guangzhou (population about 13 million, the third-largest city in China) has a history that dates back about 2,200 years (also from Wikipedia, which I consider a not-bad source, especially if you consult the footnotes at the ends of entries that lead you to better sources). So we arrived deep into the night in Guangzhou (pronounced Gwan-jo), the capital of Guangdong (formerly called Canton) province, south of Hunan province (where we were in Changsha) and just north of Hong Kong, where we began and will end our trip.

Got that? Not to worry if you don’t. Here’s the important thing:

Because this is embassy/consulate territory and many high rises sprout into the sky like long-stemmed silver weeds, this neighborhood feels more prosperous, more upscale than anything we saw in Changsha. Many Westerners live in the Tiahne district, including, once upon a time, Nikki.

Our hotel, the Guo Men, is an older hotel, but very classy. It has Chinese-style beds, which is to say plywood “mattresses” with a whisper of fabric on them. I have built an impromptu platform of pillows to sleep on—by no means soft but more tolerable for this wimpy American. (Nikki and Annie are much more hardy and sleep just fine on their hard surface.) The hotel sits across the street from a McDonald’s and three coffee houses, one of which is a Starbuck’s. (In contrast, we saw no Starbuck’s in Changsha.) This area is, for the most part, more wheelchair-friendly, except for the ten sweeping steps up to the hotel. There is no ramp that we can find, so we lift Annie’s wheelchair up and down every time we come or go, though if one of the nice, young doormen is on duty, he will usually help us. (Unexpected bonus: I am losing a few pounds and building up some serious arm muscles.)

Mind-bending architecture in Guangzhou… why?? how??

The view from our hotel window… I think of it as the Batman building.

And, as in Changsha, the sky is surprisingly blue here, too, on the edge of the Pearl River Delta, one of the largest in China. It’s still beastly hot and humid in this monsoon season—the breeze does not cool you; it just teases you with what might be—but we are clearly no longer in Kansas. This is a little more like Oz, actually. There really are yellow brick sidewalks in places.

Yellow (and red) brick sidewalks in the Tiahne district of Guangzhou.

If Changsha was the place to pick up Annie and complete the Chinese paperwork, we are in Guangzhou to do the American business that will let Nikki bring her home as a U.S. citizen. In both cities we’ve had translators. In Changsha we had the services of the very capable Wendy; in Guangzhou Elsie does the honors. (I love that these Chinese women have taken on American names for their work, which I bet no one in their families calls them at home.) We could not do what we need to do without them, and we are most grateful for their assistance.

Our hotel, the Guo Men.

We also continue to use what we’ve learned from others on this trip. For example, I had no idea that you could eat a banana in its own jacket with a spoon (see photo at the top of this post). Nikki calls this the ayis’ banana hack, the way the Chinese carers fed kids bananas in the orphanage. You cut a banana in half and use a spoon to moosh up the ’nana and then feed it to the kid. You have two halves, so you can save one, if you want. Is that genius, or what?

There is much to see in Guangzhou that we will not see on this trip—it is a bastion of Chinese history, from the Guangdong Museum of Art to the Guangdong Folk Art Museum to the Guangdong Museum of Revolutionary History. I’d have loved to tour the Nanyue Royal Tomb Museum, going back, as it does, through two millennia (that’d be 2,000 years) of the province.

I mean, really… 2,000-plus years. This boggles my mind. In California we’ve got white people history back about 160 years, though native people can certainly claim a couple of millennia, too. We, unfortunately, don’t have museums, though, that cover that span of time or those people. In China, they do. The Zhenhai Tower at the Guangzhou Museum dates back to 1380 (that’s a year, not a time, though they do keep 24-hour time in China). I love telling my students that although Johannes Gutenberg invented a printing press with movable type about 1440, the Chinese were doing the same thing a couple of centuries before that. (Gutenberg was no slouch—he figured out a formula for high-quality printing with metal type and oil-based ink. Not to take anything away from the man: He was the guru of movable type… in Europe.)

The Chinese were printing with movable type centuries before Gutenberg.

Yoga is everywhere!

But the Chinese got there first. China likes to be known for the four great inventions: papermaking, the compass, gunpowder and printing. But (hello!) the Chinese also figured out how to make beer, mechanical clocks, porcelain, and how to harvest silk for paper and cloth, to name a bunch. Not to mention how to spoon-feed a kid a banana out of its own jacket.

So anyone who thinks this place is not civilized needs to look again. These folks invented civilization long before most other civilizations. Don’t get me wrong: China has made me even more appreciative of my privilege and good fortune to be from the United States (not that I wasn’t before). But the people (who speak Cantonese, by the way, not Mandarin, as they do where Annie comes from) are what will stay with me.

Look at these men on a construction crew, for example. Some of their ancestors may have immigrated to California in the 1850s to build the Central Pacific Railroad through the Sierra Nevada. San Francisco’s Chinatown (the oldest in North America, established in the 1840s) has the highest per-capita concentration of Chinese Americans of any city in the U.S., many of them from Guangdong province or Hong Kong. Some of Annie’s people and their descendants live very close to her in Sacramento!

Guangzhou old and new: from the traditional laborer (foreground) to the modern, cell phone-carrying kind (rear).

This is what I’m going to tell Annie someday when I show her these photos in her next photo album, the ones Aunt Jan will assemble for her from this journey.

“These are the people you come from,” I will say. “You come from Lucy and the ayis and your friends at The Lighthouse and The Butterfly House. But you are also from strong women fluent in two difficult languages like Wendy and Elsie who work as interpreters for people adopting children. And see these men shoveling sand into bamboo baskets, then attaching them to carrying poles or yokes and taking them in a building for construction? The shirtless man had to be 70 or more, lithe and strong and working so very hard on a hot summer day.

“You are from the noodlemakers and the fruit sellers, the doughnut man and the women who clean hotel rooms, the doorman, the yoga teachers and yogis, the women working at the newsstand, the business people and educators and the young people who work at McDonald’s.”

I will tell her how much I learned during my brief time in China, as I know her new mama will tell about her many years of experience in Annie’s home country. And I will say:

“These are your good people, people to be proud of, as we are proud of you.”

Annie likes touching Nikki’s curly hair.

(#9 in the Annie series)

Moving day. And not just a small move, a large one involving getting a kid and her wheelchair and all our belongings to a train station across the city and into a crowded station, negotiating obstacles like escalators because this part of China is rarely accessible, and boarding a fast train to Guangzhou, Canton, hundreds of miles from Changsha. Neither Nikki nor I know how many miles, but traveling at 200 mph for a good three hours would probably reveal the distance if I’d ever figured out how to do word problems. But I didn’t, and it doesn’t matter. It amounted to a very long afternoon in a hot, muggy train station that tested the patience of all three of us.

Wendy reviews Annie’s documents with Nikki on our last morning in Changsha.

Translator Wendy came by before we left with Annie’s final documents, including her Chinese passport with her visa for her journey to the U.S. We knew we’d miss Wendy. She was an excellent translator and of great help to us at some difficult moments. We wanted to take her with us, but left her with chocolate as a thank you for all her assistance.

Our final van ride in Changsha.

Then we boarded the now-familiar van with its kind and gentle driver for one last trip to the Changsha train station where we emerged, as expected, into the wall of heat that we’d experienced when we arrived.

We waited in a section of the Changsha train station covered (oddly, we thought) by a huge expanse of glass ceiling, which, of course, turned the place into a greenhouse. Annie was a good sport for quite a while, though we felt so bad for her, withering in the heat. On the one hand, you’d think she’d be more used to it than we are, which she probably is. But given the logistics, the bumping around, the noise and all the people—chaos like she’s probably never seen—it was traumatic.

Trying to cool off in the sweltering train station.

And an hour after we arrived, when we learned that our 3:15 p.m. train had been delayed but no one could say how long, Nikki decided to go trade our tickets for another train bound for Guangzhou.

A tour guide waits for her group’s train at the Changsha train station.

The problem was that Nikki couldn’t get us tickets on anything before a 6 p.m. train, which meant an even longer wait. And, to add insult to already sweating misery, the train we were supposed to be on did show up about 45 minutes late, and we could’ve been enroute by 4 p.m. Nikki was kicking herself for trading in the tickets. “The lady I talked to didn’t want to trade them, but this is China, and I thought we might be waiting all night here,” she said.

Train station snack of mandarin oranges.

That would have been bad since we had a 9:30 a.m. meeting with the translator in Guangzhou for Annie’s medical appointment. That’s a must-happen, a deal-breaker if it didn’t, because that would mean no U.S. visa in Annie’s shiny new red Chinese passport. No visa, no U.S. entry.

So we relocated to the slightly cooler end of the station—the part not under high glass windows where the sun was beating down—and found seats in the less crowded area. And that’s when Annie lost it. Great big wails of discomfort and unhappiness. Nikki and I wanted to wail, too, but we’re the grownups, we reminded ourselves. We’d had not a little frustration and teeth gnashing the day before, listening to Annie rage as her little heart broke with the realization that she wasn’t going back to the orphanage where her friends and her ayis were, that she was stuck with these two crazy white ladies who were taking her God knows where, even though one of them kept trying to tell her things in bad Chinese, and the other lady was just unintelligible (what was that gobbledygook she was saying?).

The long wait for the train to Guangzhou.

Nikki sprung Annie from her chair and, as I unfolded the changing pad on the train station floor, Nikki set her on it, hoping she’d be more comfortable there. Annie was having none of it. She wailed and thrashed her stiff limbs, furious, and our blood pressures rose and none of us wanted to be there, but we were stuck until that train came.

None of us had had lunch, and while still in her chair, Annie’d eaten the yogurt and the applesauce Nikki’d brought, but that wasn’t a proper meal. And it didn’t seem to make her feel better.

McDonald’s to the rescue!

So there we were with a hot and upset child when it occurred to me to do something I never do at home anymore—I ran to the train station McDonald’s and, in a rare moment of independence in a place where I have very little Chinese, managed to order two meals by pointing to the numbers of the meals on the menu—one double cheeseburger and one Chicken McNuggets. And Sprite because it comes with crushed ice you can trust, Nikki says, and I hadn’t had anything resembling ice for more than a week in the hottest conditions I’ve ever encountered. (Have I mentioned that it’s generally been about 95 degrees with 80 percent humidity and little to no breeze?) I drank a bit of the soda—again, something I never do at home anymore—just for the cold of it.

I brought it all back to where Nikki was trying to comfort Annie—which still wasn’t working. People were walking by staring at this kid with the twisted limbs like gnarled tree roots on the floor, probably wondering, “What the heck?” We’d had a lot of stares, which we expected, some of them hostile, which didn’t help. We hadn’t yet encountered so much stink eye, as they say in Hawaii, in a single day. But we also got looks of sympathy, and one young couple handed me a small wrapped piece of candy as I desperately fanned Annie with a folder I’d brought with me. (There were no foldable, paper fans for sale to be found. In Changsha. And I’d been looking. No fans. Don’t they come from here?!)

I sat on one of seats where we’d piled our belongings as Nikki sat on the floor with Annie. I ate the double cheeseburger, surprised at how good it was. When I’d walked across the station to McD’s, I employed a little walking meditation with a lot of helpushelpushelpus, asking for any available miracles the companion spirits might be able to bestow. Now would be good, I thought. One was, it turned out, that I was able to order food in a country where I don’t speak the language and actually find a young man behind the country who tried his best basic English on me. Never have I been so grateful for English language learners.

But we still needed another miracle… fast.

After I gobbled my burger and fries, I urged Nikki to eat, which I knew would be difficult, since she was so upset. So I said, “I’ll sit with Annie,” and we traded places—me on the floor and Nikki on the seat also holding one of our backpacks. I thought to grab my new iPad, which I had loaded up with music the day before I left home. I’ve been singing to Annie, and I tried again with our Top 6 Annie Hits: “Tomorrow,” “The House at Pooh Corner,” “The Wheels on the Bus,” “Let’s Go Fly a Kite,” “Mother Duck” and, of course, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” She seems to like my singing, or at least be amused by it. This time my singing brought a momentary cessation of tears, but not good enough, Aunt Jan.

Antsy McClain in concert

And then I thought of Antsy. I had maybe nine songs on the iPad by Antsy McClain and the Trailer Park Troubadours, including such hits as “One Less Trailer Here in Pine View Heights,” “Living the Dream” and, oh, yes, “When You’re Laughing.” Which turned out to be the perfect song for the occasion.

As soon as I hit “play” and Antsy’s resonant baritone came out of my iPad, tears sprang to my eyes. It must have been hearing a familiar voice when I needed one. Antsy has become a good friend of Dick’s and mine. He and I edited (and he designed) a magazine for his fans called Enjoy the Ride, which was a lot of fun.

I needed that happy Antsy song with a catchy tune and good beat. I didn’t much care if the song did anything for Annie; it was all about me in that moment. But (whaddya know?) we got our miracle. Within seconds of hearing his voice, Annie’s tears stopped, her eyes were riveted to the iPad, and a small smile began to creep across her face. Then a grin. Then an Annie chortle. I sat there on the floor of the Changsha train station, boogie-ing from the waist up, singing along with Antsy:

Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages
May I have your attention—here it is for all it’s worth
Life is a circus—it’s crazy, outrageous
It’s the greatest show on earth

Three rings are goin’, there’s always somethin’ happening
Acrobats and jugglers and a human cannonball
My face is painted; I’m here to keep you laughing
Helpin’ you smile through it all.

The world’s a brighter place when you’re laughing
I love to see your face when you smile
A stranger’s just a friend waitin’ to happen
Inside us all there’s a wide-eyed child.

Antsy sings to Annie, a wide-eyed child.

She loved it. I played all the Antsy songs I had on my iPad, and Annie was riveted to the screen, fascinated by his voice. I tried other music, but her favorite was the guy with the fabulous pompadour and the goofy glasses (James Taylor came in second place, but it was a distant second). So I played Antsy over and over for a good 45 minutes, until it was time to load Annie into her chair and head to the train platform.

It turns out that Nikki had seen Antsy and the Troubs when they played the Palms Playhouse in Winters. And Dick and I had, just two weeks before I left for China, gone up to the Troubs’ annual camping extravaganza, Woodflock, in Red Bluff, California (aka one of the hottest places in Northern California that now doesn’t seem so bad to me]. I did a writing session there for 37 Flamingoheads, as his fans call themselves, and people wrote and read like angels on a hot day, which, given what I know now, barely tips the heat meter of the world. But oh, they were on fire, and it was a beautiful thing, listening to all those words that flowed out of people.

I thought of those people and their good writing after we put Annie in her chair. That made me smile. We still had some time (our 6 p.m. train didn’t arrive till 6:30), and Nikki had the brilliant idea to try ice cream from McD’s, with strawberry, Annie’s favorite flavor. So she headed over there and brought back a cup of the cold stuff. I spooned it into Annie’s mouth as fast as I could, and she loved it.

Annie’s first train ride from Changsha to Guangzhou.

She also loved her first train ride. (I loved my second fast train ride in China, too.) Who doesn’t love watching the world whizz by in a blur of color and images, all of them new to you? Though exhausted, Annie took to it like a trooper before Nikki pulled Annie out of her chair and let her lie across two seats, where she fell asleep.

We didn’t get to Guangzhou till 9:30 and then had to find a driver, who turned out to be a sweet, skinny man with a mini van who barely got Annie’s chair into the back and had to tie down the door with a piece of flimsy looking string. Annie had to lie on the back seat with her head in Nikki’s lap and I had to ride in the front seat with my eyes closed because, even at that hour, with less traffic than during the day, it was a bit of a wild ride. We got into our room a bit before 11, which meant we could make the medical appointment the next day. We were all beyond spent, but we made it.

Here’s the thing: We got several miracles that helped on a difficult day, including McDonald’s (something I never thought I’d say) in Changsha and a resourceful man and his mini van in Guangzhou.

Antsy McClain

The biggest miracle, though, came from a songwriter who really did grow up in trailer parks and later became a fine painter and a songwriter. His sweet songs calmed and amused a little girl he may never meet, and she, like so many other fans, was captivated by his voice, his energy, his kindness. Antsy has five kids of his own and a grandchild; this guy understands kids, even if his music is (sorta) meant for grownups.

I hope to always remember this moment: Antsy’s voice floating from an iPad to Annie’s ears. One of his songs is “Time Is a Westbound Train,” a wistful ballad with a lovely metaphor. Once we were on the train, I set the iPad on Annie’s wheelchair tray and played it for her. She squealed and grinned as she watched the world whiz past the big windows, though we were heading south. Didn’t matter. Time is a southbound train, too.

For the record, Annie also really likes Antsy’s song, “Living in Aluminum,” and when she understands English, I’m gonna teach her Antsy’s Aluminum Rule:

Thou Shalt Enjoy the Ride

Despite the bumps life has thrown at her, I’m pretty sure she already is.

Antsy and Jan, summer 2015

Shameless plug for my friend: Here’s a video of Antsy McClain performing “When You’re Laughing” with tuba player Josh Cutchin at a performance in Davis, California, in May 2008. If you like the song, you can buy it on iTunes or at your favorite online music retailer. It’s on the “New Good Old Days” album. You can learn more about Antsy McClain and the Trailer Park Troubadours at www.unhitched.com.

(#8 in the Annie series)

As Annie napped on our third day in Changsha, I looked through her scrapbooks. She came to us with two of them in her pink Hello Kitty suitcase—one from her first home at The Butterfly House and the second from her most recent home at The Lighthouse. There must be a Chinese character for “beautiful” and “heartbreaking” together—at least, I hope there is—because these scrapbooks are both.

They are, among many things, testament to Annie’s life before Nikki and to the many people who have loved her. They are filled with letters in Chinese and English from her ayis and volunteers and staff who have deeply cared for and adored Annie. There are photos of Annie at all different stages of her life and written stories about her, too.

Here’s one of her scrapbooks:

Is this sweet or what? It was kept by The Butterfly House, the hospice where Annie lived when she was found May 22, 2010. Her age was estimated to be 1, and her birthdate was assigned exactly a year on the day she was found—May 22, 2009. For three years the good people at The Butterfly House loved and nursed little Annie, and, when she was doing well, she was moved to The Lighthouse, where she spent her most recent three years. She turned 7 on May 22 this year.

There is so much to ooh and ahh over in these precious volumes. But the entries that really tug at my heartstrings are the ones about her wheelchair. Annie didn’t have a chair for the first few years, and because she can’t sit up on her own, it meant she spent most of her time lying down or being held. She had a stuffed hedgehog named Wei-Wei that supported her head while lying, I learned from her scrapbook, but, as is true now, she had no vertical stability.

Enter a volunteer from Hong Kong named Andy, who spent time with Annie, charmed by her “megawatt smile,” it says in the scrapbook. (That bright smile has grown even brighter as she’s gotten older.) “He was captivated by Annie’s loving heart and wanted to do something significant to help her.” Apparently Andy (I don’t see a last name for him) returned to Hong Kong and with his wife Lesley raised money for a specialized wheelchair for Annie—the one she has now.

“Annie loves people, and we think her own chair will increase her interaction with visitors,” it says in her scrapbook under her photo with Andy. “She will be able to make eye contact more easily, and volunteers will be able to take her outside for a walk.”

We have learned this, too: She loves walks. Her chair made that possible.

Andy and Lesley and some Hong Kong scouts raised money for Annie’s wheelchair, which is a sporty, aluminum-framed model. Nikki is certain that it must have cost several thousand dollars. And the entries in her scrapbook about getting that chair leap off the page with joy:

“Her specially made chair has arrived, and she absolutely loves it. We are so grateful to Andy, the Hong Kong scouts and all friends who contributed to this incredible gift. Thanks to you, this unique and precious child can feel the joy of greeting her friends at eye level. She can see the world like other children, instead of always looking up. She has the ability to move within her environment instead of having to wait and hope that others will move to her.”

On another page with a picture of a smaller, happy Annie in her chair, it describes her as “sitting up like a queen in her new throne.” And a very good writer has added:

Photos from Annie’s scrapbook.

“This chair has changed her experience of the world and opened up a new perspective for her. But even more than that—it speaks to her heart and tells her that she is valued and that she is worthy. And that is a message her heart can always hold on to.”

I was sitting on my bed in our hotel room in Changsha, looking at this story, reading bits of it to Nikki, trying not to let my tears drip on the scrapbook. It is a most incredible record of Annie’s life. The idea that someone is an “orphan” can summon some horrifying images. While it’s true that Annie was abandoned, she made a new family at two different places that became home to her, filled with adults and other children who love her and will think of her wherever she goes.

A younger Annie.

—-

When Lucy brought Annie’s medications to us the day she was delivered to Nikki, Lucy suggested that we come to dinner two nights later with some of the staff of The Lighthouse. She offered to set up a dinner at a restaurant near us so we could join their weekly gathering. It turned out to be very close—just across the street, though we had to walk a couple of blocks to find a safe place to cross the street at dinner time/rush hour.

We were a bit late, and it turned out that The Lighthouse folks had reserved a private room upstairs in the restaurant—up stairs, literally. No elevator. But Lucy, a can-do woman from Singapore, seemed undaunted by the barrier. She convinced Nikki that they could carry Annie up two long sets of stairs, and a couple of The Lighthouse folks came to ceremoniously escort the queen and her chair to her dining room. There we met the other staff members who had come for dinner, a very nice group of people who have made it their life’s work to teach and support the children of the Lighthouse.

Lucy (right) feeds Annie dinner at the restaurant.

Lucy had ordered a variety of dishes that were brought in and placed on what we might call a large lazy susan—a circular tray that turns in the middle of the table. We ate family style after Clive gave the blessing, and Nikki caught up on news of people who had worked at The Lighthouse.

When we were done, Lucy and a couple of the other staffers stood up and, looking at Annie in her chair across the table, burst into the five little ducks song in English:

Five little ducks went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother Duck said, “Quack, quack, quack, quack,”
But only four little ducks came back

Here’s the amazing thing: Not only does Annie love this song, but she also sings along! Lucy paused before she got to the “quack quack quack quack” part, and all heads at the table swiveled to Annie. Much to our surprise, we heard her say, “quack, quack”! It took her a bit to get the words out, but they were a recognizable “quack.” Nikki and I were as delighted as if Annie had up and recited a whole poem.

She knows a song! In English! She can sing along! Lucy continued with great flourish and arm motions:

Four little ducks went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother Duck said, “Quack, quack, quack, quack,”
But only three little ducks came back

Lucy has been saying to Nikki since we got here, “Annie is very smart,” and we are seeing this, too. She’s tracking with everything being said in Chinese, and she understands more English than we realize.

Three little ducks went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother Duck said, “Quack, quack, quack, quack,”
But only two little ducks came back

Clearly this is true. As my father used to say, “There’s nothing wrong with her thinker.” Lucy kept singing and so did Annie:

Two little ducks went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother Duck said, “Quack, quack, quack, quack,”
But only one little duck came back

And the saddest verse:

One little duck went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother Duck said, “Quack, quack, quack, quack,”
But none of the five little ducks came back

Lucy sported her saddest face at this development, none of the ducks coming back. But then, she wound up for the big finish:

Sad Mother Duck went out one day
Over the hill and far away
Mother Duck said, “Quack, quack, quack, quack,”
And all the five little ducks came back

Much rejoicing at the happy ending. And as we’ve learned, Annie loves a big finish when it comes to songs. She quacked for all she was worth on the last verse, and at the end there was much laughter and applause around the table from some of the adults (and two kids) who knew her best.

The queen’s entourage carried her down the stairs, too, when it came time to leave, and everyone bid Annie a fond farewell. After we went out into the steamy Changsha night to walk back to our hotel, Lucy strapped on her helmet, got on her scooter (a primary mode of transport in Changsha) and waved at us.

“Bye-bye!” she said, which, it turns out, means the same thing in Chinese as it does in English.

Annie grinned at her computer teacher. Nikki and I waved, and we walked to our temporary home carrying in our hearts a familiar tune that we can sing—not just to—but with Annie.