On the bus

The bus from Qufu, where Confucius lived, to the mountain hamlet of Tai'an, is sticky and brown. Decades of exhaust clings to the threadbare seat backs just as the plastic armrests cling to the skin. When summitting a hitch in the road or fording a pothole, the entire bus rattles and bends as if it were fifty pieces of aluminum, tied together loosely with twine.

The ride is supposed to be an hour, but it takes an hour and a half when the driver picks up whoever waves his or her arms by the roadside. The new passengers are covered in dust, lugging babies, boxes of fruit, or bags of scraps. They are always eager to board.

Beside a wide bridge, we picked up a few more riders. My new seatmate was a tall, slim guy in his early twenties. He had a buzz cut and wore a striped button up, black pants, and shiny black belt, the standard issue for young professionals--the type behind the counter at the travel agency or selling mobile phones in street side kiosks. His shoes were brand new, nylon loafers with a gleaming stainless steel buckle. But the narrow, pointed toes were already thickly caked with yellow soil. The soil in this region is so fine that when there is no rain, the soil levitates into the air, a brown haze about ten feet high, permeating closed doors, clothing, lungs. He had walked a long way in the dust.

He sat next to me quietly with wide eyes. He looked first at the mildewed blue curtain tied back against the window, which was smeared with the grease left by tired heads. He peered at the red plastic ceiling light, aged to opacity save for the faint outline of a hundred dead moths. He looked at the tiled floor, with its strings of exit lights, mostly burned out. Then he touched the sticky plastic armrest, lifting it gingerly into place and then lifting it again to release it. He did this maybe twenty times with unbroken fascination.

"Where are you headed?" I finally asked him. He looked at me puzzled and a bit alarmed. I repeated my question, carefully enunciating as best as I could, trying to avoid the American twang that sometimes injects itself when I'm in a hurry.

His expression brightened with understanding, and he smiled excitedly. "To the City," he said.

I nodded and smiled, turning back towards the window. But I felt he looked at me a long while after that, marveling, I think, at this foreigner with a funny accent and strange clothes, this person who had ridden buses before and lived in the City.

When we arrived at our stop, I said goodbye. "Take care of yourself," I said simply, but I tried to convey in the tone of my voice, my full wish. For him, a short and gentle road from inexperience to worldliness, and for me, his sense of wonder.

Who can resist

an omelette with an extravagant name entirely lost in translation?

Also, they have eyes! But since when did royalty wear helmets? This place also had basic pizzas with funny names. Western Coffee, 1-1 Hongmen Lu, Tai'an, China.

These are a few of my favorite things (to eat)

 样梅 (yángméi). A gently sweet and sour berry that grows on trees. They make me think of a very mellow strawberry lemonade. They're in season right now, so I got two pints and ate them all while writing this.

老鼠斑 (laoshuban, literally "spotted like a mouse" fish), cooked Cantonese-style. A super-delicate ocean fish that's always rather pricey. (This one was Y389/斤 (about US$60) but totally worth it.) They are to the Chinese what prime rib is to Americans, only Americans don't keep the cows alive in a tank in the kitchen.

 苋菜(xiān cài). Sort of like spinach but with even more minerality. It actually has a naturally salty flavor. What's better than a self-seasoning food? Plus, it turns everything pink.

 山药(shān yào). These were more than four feet long. They grow straight down into the ground like carrots, and the farmer has to dig each out of the earth without breaking it. Sauteed, they taste like a cross between potato and taro, with some of the crisp sweetness of raw apple. I also love them Japanese-style--raw and grated with tuna, maguro yamake.

白菊花 (bai juhua). White chrysanthemums. Naturally sweet and aromatic. I chew on the flowers when I drink this tea. I've been drinking a lot of it, because it really helps me with my allergies. (There is a waiter at a super fancy, double Michelin-starred restaurant (cough cough Saison cough) who calls these flowers, "chrysansenuns.")

蕃薯(fanshu). Teeny tiny, homegrown sweet potatoes. These were dug out of the mountainside in Zhujiayu, a small village dating back a few thousand years, in the Shandong Province. Pretty much everything tastes better in baby form, doesn't it?

The best, worst-celebrity restaurant in the world

Beethoven was on the one next to Tony Bennett. Jasmine Cafe (茉莉餐厅), Parc 66 (恒隆广场), Quancheng Lu, Jinan, Shandong.

The ol' swimming hole

In the middle of town, behind a crowded touristy street known as Furong Jie, there's a quiet spring that the neighborhood has used as a swimming hole for the past 600 years.

A really nice, little old lady sits next to it selling swimwear (Y15-38) and floaties (Y24). I'd noticed during both my visits that all of the swimmers were men. When I asked her whether it was okay for women to swim, she said, "Of course! Lots of women come here to swim. They just work during the day, unlike these lazy guys."

The public entrance to 王府池子 (the Wang family pool) is a hole in the granite fence. The other side is still used mostly by members of the Zhang family, whose compound is across the way. They've lived in this neighborhood for about as long as the Wangs. To get here, turn right at the police stand on Furong Jie and follow the splashing sounds.

On sale now at Wal-Mart

Best sellers here are rice and 绿豆 (lü dou, mung beans). In Chinese medicine, mung beans are used to 清肺和肠胃 (loosely, clear out the respiratory and digestive systems). A porridge of rice and mung beans is a staple of the Chinese diet, eaten for breakfast and comfort--the equivalent of cornflakes, chicken noodle soup, and cold medicine that actually works, rolled into one.

This gigantic Wal-Mart has eels and snow globes, but for some reason, only had a selection of three cameras in its Electronics Department (3rd floor, by the entrance escalator). 5 Quancheng Lu, Jinan, Shandong.

Almost everyone is happy at the park

Jinan has relied on the fresh water flowing from its 700 natural mountain springs for millennia. 五龙潭公园, Wulongtan Gongyuan, Five Dragon Pool Park. Jinan, Shandong.

The hazards of living near KTV (a karaoke bar)

 

 "Do not poo or pee here!" Posted in an alley off of Tongyuanju Qian Jie, Jinan, Shandong.

200 feet of meat

The scene last night on 银虎池街 (Yinhuchi Jie, "the pool where the lion drinks street") in the heart of the Hui neighborhood in Jinan, Shandong China.
 
This guy had a good three hundred skewers of lamb with garlic and peppers, seasoned with turmeric and cumin, roasting over hot coals (2 RMB each). I am a sucker for lamb kidney on a stick (1 RMB each).

Research time in Jinan, Shandong Province

Taxi driver picking up other fares along the way, piping hot orange juice, a kind stranger offering me a bite of his chicken sandwich on the super-fast train. I am in China.

Time for a new pack?

The Bolinas, a sweet 30-liter daypack.

My boot came untied in the middle of scrambling over a boulder field. It was probably mile 25 of a 60-mile expedition and my right arm was already numb from the weight of the boulder strapped to my back. I went to plant a knee to get to my laces, but with the sudden shift in my center of gravity, I tipped to the left, causing my pack to slide widely to the left, and suddenly I was falling toward a wide crag, the bottom of which I couldn't see. Fortunately, my pack was bulky enough that it wedged itself between me and the abyss, and so I was able to unhitch myself from my 50-pound burden and crawl to safety. It was the one good thing that pack did for me on that trip.

Two lessons I took from this: Tie double knots. Go ultralight.

The fantastic folks at Boreas, a boutique outdoor gear design shop in San Francisco make gorgeous streamlined packs, which are comfortable to wear, built to last, and do just what their told. Their 60-liter Lost Coast and 55-liter Buttermilks packs are perfect for multi-day trips and heavier loads. Backpacker made them both their 2012 Editors' Choice picks.

Best of all, Boreas gave me a pro deal to share with all of you intrepid travelers. Just shoot me an email, and I'll send you a code, which gets you 55% off!