Qing Ming is spring break in Chinese...kind of

Spring break, however, doesn't really exist in the Chinese context. It's simply spring and the rice is ready to plant.

So, it could be more fitting that in English, one of the translated names for the holiday is about working instead of breaking. Rather blunt and literal, Qing Ming can be found masquerading around the web as Tomb Sweeping Day. A day for the dead. It's other moniker, the festival of Pure Brightness, perhaps a bit more poetic.

For me, however, the Qing Ming Festival simply means no obligation for 5 days. Naturally, I'm flying the coop. On Friday I'm heading south to Yunnan to hike the deepest gorge in the world--Tiger Leaping Gorge.

Mountains, rivers, Naxi, hell yes.

The picture to the left is one I took in Guangxi province in the fall, it's located just southeast of Yunnan.

And the wall falls.

Finallllllllllllllly back.

Blogging to resume shortly.

Are we in Florida?

Around mid-morning we saw the sky scrapers rising in the distance. I had the map, but hadn't been paying attention to it, per usual, and wasn't expecting to see the looks of a big city to our left. We had left Brisbane three hours ago and Sydney was at least 700 miles away still.

After ignoring them for a few minutes, panic got the better of Ingrid.

"Anna, please tell me we're not heading back to Brisbane?" Ingrid pleaded, rather than asked, as the skyscrapers grew larger and more imminent.

"I don't think so..." I trailed off as I flipped the map in every direction to figure out what could be the reason for the metropolis. While Ingrid is driving, her wrath is not something to be toyed with, I knew from experience in Brisbane and didn't want to go back to that. But it had seemed like another mess up, for sure.

The idea was to cruise south to Sydney and along the way we'd make detours when worthy. This included Queensland's infamous and seemingly endless stretch of white sand, collectively known as the Golden Coast. I didn't know what to expect, but as I read the description of Surfer's Paradise in Ingrid's Rough Guide to Australia, while searching for a better map, it highlighted our ignorance: "Surfer's Paradise is known for its sweeping coast of skyscrapers as well as its beautiful beaches."

The high rises were actually lofts for vacationers, not businesses, of course. It's apparent popularity seemed more than enough to validate a stop and in tune, the sun had come out after the storm.

In Bill Bryson's Down Under, he talks about the Surfer's Paradise of the 1950s, before the commercialization rolled in as quickly as the immigrants that fueled Australia's quick prosperity did. Before that, Australia's total population was low and its existence was marginal. After WWII, the times were a changin'. Postcards from the era emblazon the shifting ideal of the time, affluent families playing in the sand, surfers catching waves and girls dressed head to toe in swim ware. Exactly what you'd expect: happy, wholesome, good times. Promiscuity and indulgence was no where to be seen. In the pictures, there are no casinos, party clubs, high rise apartments, mega shopping malls or any of the flair that has now stamped its signature on the place. Today's Surfer's Paradise is your Party Paradise. Forget the waves, the beach is only a small part of the equation. The ocean is just the jewel that brought people here in the beginning and as Ingrid and I stepped out of our car, it shined and rumbled like a jealous sister next to its pampered kin.

And to be fair, some of the buildings were unabashedly lavish and the people were outrageously gorgeous, particularly the lifeguard that filled every fantasy one could have about an Australian beach boy. But Ingrid and I kept walking, we wanted to steal a stretch of sand away from the noise. It was still early enough that we could. Our 12-person dorm in Brisbane, from the night before, was mixed gender and our roommates of the night had rewarded us with a melody of snores, only complemented with foul smells that drove us out and on the road at 6 a.m. I slept in the sand while Ingrid ran out to greet the waves. They were wild. The water was warm, a stark difference from Melbourne's beaches, just a few thousand miles made the difference from (barely) bearable to delightful. And at that moment, the sun poked through the few clouds in a sweat-drenching fury. I could certainly see the appeal, despite its Florida flashiness. In fact, the town directly south, which shows no distinction from Surfer's Paradise, goes by the name of Miami and invokes it too. However, if I was honest, neither Ingrid nor I wanted to leave hastily. We could have easily stayed longer and discovered what Surfer's Paradise turned into once the sun disappeared completely, but it wasn't in our plan. After a few hours and a blushing red burn, we continued on. Bryon Bay lay ahead and it promised even more.

That's unfortunate.

As our plane dove out of the clouds, the window view was just as bleak-- rain. Ingrid and I arrived in the sunshine state in a drizzle. A precursor to the flood that was quickly gripping the homes of western Queensland and eventually the metropolis of Brisbane. A week later and our flight would have been cancelled due to the lack of a runway.

Usually, I'd take pity on a city that was about to be hit by the stresses of mother nature in rage, but from the start, Brisbane never let me take that stance. Disdain, not pity, seized me.

After a stressful start into the city, Australians drive on the wrong (read:left) side of the road; Ingrid and I treated ourselves with some decent pub food and then combed the city for activities. Nothing. The town was dead. We did what we could in any city really, we drank wine, watched a movie and woke with the sun to make our escape.

That's what Brisbane was for me. A city of little to do, but to get out.

The world's dullest game? Not to an Aussie.

Before I move on to Brisbane or tell you about China's idea of Women's Day, I must dedicate a post to the mysteries of cricket. They are many and great.

On one of our many late night skype sessions, Ingrid asked me if I was keen to a cricket match a day after I arrived. It was a big one. The Ashes. While I had yet to understand this statement, I thought I knew the game. I agreed to it, then googled the tournament promptly after I said goodbye.

"Huh, cricket doesn't involve horses?"

Then my flash of ignorance hit me. Wrong game. That was polo.

Of course. The sport I had just agreed to did not include animals of any sort, but rather aligned more in theory to baseball. With terms such as drive and drop, they were one in the same. Or a bowler instead of pitcher, I could visually see the connection. Other words, however, strayed from comprehension. In cricket, there's a dibbly dobbly, diamond duck, dilscoop, dolly and the ever unfortunate, death overs. Still, others sounded even more archaic, like wicket, the often repeated term for the pitch or set of stumps, which reminded me more of the mythical world of Harry Potter and wizards playing quidditch, than a day at Wrigley Field.

For an American, however, it was difficult to see the merits of cricket. The action was limited to the distance a ball could roll, not fly, and while something akin to a home run could happen, it's likelihood was smaller than my chance of understanding the game it belonged to.

What it did have, however, was beer. The one and only savior. Without it, the Australians surrounding me explained, cricket would lose its crowds, undoubtedly. VB, Victoria Bitter, the (cheap) beer of choice wasn't just in their hands. Looking around, most everyone gripped their plastic cups with fervor. For it or the game? I wasn't sure. The cheers weren't frequent enough to convey constant excitement. Most people just sat around chatting between each other.

That's the thing--cricket is about getting sloshed in the daytime. You sit, heckle occasionally, but not nearly enough, and drink cheap beer until you pass out or the game is over, whichever is first. This used to lead to wild riots, naked sprints across the field and general debauchery, but then the fines tripled and cricket lost its flair for a strip tease, I was told.

I tried to understand it, but instead resigned myself to gulping down VBs with the crowd, which turned out to be a lot; the game was a slow blowout. And this wasn't just any game, it was the Ashes. It called into question national pride: Australia vs. England and Australia had been the long standing victors in overall wins through the years, but not today.

Seven or so hours later, we left with a sullen crowd. We had survived a full day of cricket, a title not many Australians can claim and with that, Ingrid and I shuffled with them to the next bar outside the arena. Like I said, cricket, after all, is a drinking game.

As an English cricket poem goes, is it the want of devil? I'll let you ponder cricket's finer details:

Well done, Cornstalks! Whipt us

Fair and square,

Was it luck that tript us?

Was it scare?

Kangaroo Land's 'Demon', or our own

Want of 'devil', coolness, nerve, backbone?

Sometimes stereotypes are never what you expect, especially in a Chinese classroom.

Take it as you want.

Perhaps, this is what happens when you keep your doors closed too long to outsiders, all sorts of ideas fly. In case it passed you, the Chinese hate the Japanese. Open a history book if you're curious why. The event that scars the Japanese has rape in the title. The rest of the details you can read about yourself, again, if you're curious.

This actually wasn't from my class, but another teacher shared it. I thought it was funny and so the sharing continues.

From what I now understand, it's possible I could be a vampire or spiderman. Who knew?