Even though every developing country claims its drivers are the most deranged, I think the trophy must really go to the Chinese. Never in my life have I seen one city bus cut off another with such hateful vigor. Or been in a bus that did a complete U-turn on a four-lane highway. The bike lane isn’t much better, motorcycles are much harder to spot until they zoom up behind you and nearly knock you down in your path. I would love to bike here more often, if only I weren't completely terrified of any combination of a Chinese person and a set of wheels.

Also, taking note of the bus bombings this summer in Kunming, it suddenly unclear which is more dangerous, being in the bus’ path, or actually onboard. Kunming buses do, however, play soothing videos of grasshoppers frolicking on dewy, green leaves.

It’s funny how fast it took everyone to know what there is to know about me. People here have already picked up on my quirks, the ones that I'm only even aware of from other people’s observations. How I swear really loudly from my desk when I’m frustrated and think about foods I hate just to gross myself out. I’m known as the girl who likes Indian food, puppies, war movies, and the “Latin America” section of msnbc.com. I guess no matter where I go, I can’t escape my compulsions. I just like things how I like them.

It’s discouraging how mediocre I am at Chinese. Granted, I’m a white girl, but all this effort seems like it needs to start showing. I left Spanish when I was really good at it, to slave away at an elusive language unwilling to be tamed, for mediocrity in the tongue of a country I don’t even plan on spending time in after I’m done with the Tufts language requirements. The only times I am actually good at Chinese are when I’m supposed to be responding in a different language. A few nights ago Sam asked me a question in Spanish, and the only words that popped into my head were Chinese proverbs.

At least I know how to scold parents for spoiling their children. And discuss horticulture.

Today Tal and Aly didn't come to class so I was all alone with Zhang Laoshi. She made me act out a skit with her in which I was a taxi driver and she was a passenger who had lost a cell phone, for which she offered me a 1000 RMB reward. My goal was to use our vocabulary to politely say I didn't want the money but "begrudingly accept" after an annoyingly long period of beating around the bush. It reminded me of the Iranian taarof custom. Why do other cultures bother so much with politeness when it comes to things like cups of tea and lost cell phones, but have absolutely no respect for anyone who wishes to walk in your general vicinity?

I’ve been making mad trips to the fruit vendor to stock up on vitamin C for combating my cold, buying about a pound every evening right outside my door. My favorites are the little tangerines the size of ping pong balls, and enormous tangelos that take about an hour to peel. Fruit stands were such a good idea. Whose idea were they? There's nothing like a Chinese tangerine, they're small and firm and just sour enough and start to spray juice as soon as you crack open the peel.

We had a lecture from an guy from an environmental NGO the other day. He said that ecotourism in China is actually more detrimental than tourism in general because Chinese people’s idea of ecotourism is driving a Volkswagen into the deep forest to take a million pictures of themselves on a horse. And then they get off the horse. And shout a lot, as it turns out. Noise pollution, as well as pollution of the air, water, and general dignity of the earth.

The bottled water stand around the corner from me has a little boy who always plays on the dirty cement expanse of the sidewalk. All his toys are lined up neatly next to the ice cream freezer, which sells slightly icier versions of Magnum and Good Humor. Walking past tonight, I saw the cot behind the counter of the little stand. The man was tucking his worried-looking wife into bed beneath the worn plaid blanket. The boy was still playing on the sidewalk.

Chinese is so dumb. Even if you recognize the character, and know the pinyin, and know the tone, and know the meaning of that individual word, you may still have no idea what anything says. For instance, who knew that “car water horse dragon” means “heavy traffic”?

It does feel good when you get it right, though.

today we visited a drug clinic, the biggest rehab facility in China. Not only does Yunnan have the most poor people, but also the most heroin addicts and the highest incidence of AIDS, all in province!!! What a deal. The clinic was exactly what the government wants you to see. Cheerful inmates in matching tracksuits perfectly arranged four-to-a-table in the library. Smiling smack addicts performing a cheesy Chinese culture revue, led by an emcee who probably thought he was on a game show. All around was propaganda about "6.26," the Chinese-invented "miracle drug" that was supposedly an herbal cure for heroin addiction, with a 98% success rate and no side-effects. Ok. It was like the Olympics, "6.26" on posters on the walls and flashing from every page of the patient-run magazine, Kaishi. "6.26 is a cultural miracle! Unlike the deadly chemicals spawned from German labs! We praise China's enduring kindness and cunning scientific wit!"

it dawns on me that some of you just want to hear about a typical day here, one unmarred by forced basketball games with heroin addicts. Not that heroin addicts are bad people, I'm just not really into basketball. Every morning I wake up around 7, take a shower and review some homework before heading to class. I usually eat a mantou, which is basically boiled Wonder Bread, or sometimes a scallion pancake or mushroom dumpling. Unless I am getting Indian food that evening, that is the best-tasting food I will have all day, which, let's face it, is pretty sad.

(for lunch at the rehab clinic, the only thing that wasn't battered and deep fried--really, China?--was defrosted cherry tomatoes. Which tasted like they had been repeatedly put in and pulled out of the freezer over a period of weeks by someone who couldn't quite make up his mind on whom to burden his sad fruit).

We have Chinese class from 8 to 12 every day, with a little break in between where we do taiji with an old Chinese guy whose only English is, on repeat, "the legs..." I can't wait to tell my chiropractor.

after Chinese I get lunch, from the noodle vendors in the alley or from the Muslim cafeteria. Then I try to fit in some more chinese homework (but usually end up sleeping) before afternoon lecture on Chinese history and culture. Thank god we finished the unit with the terrifying videos on the Cultural Revolution. I was starting to lose my faith in the human race.

there isn't much time to do things between classes and the library, but we often go exploring around the little shops and parks nearby, and almost always end up on Western street. Since Kunming doesn't have any tourists, all the foreign people are expats and college students, which can be pretty interesting. All the white men throw themselves at Asian girls, must find wife. You start to run into the same people everywhere you go, since it's such a small community, especially at Salvador's, the coffee shop where we all go do work and dabble in the smoothie menu.

every night in the library here, there seems to be some sort of cult that meets across the hall, droning on and on in a chant that could be a membership prerequisite to some sort of secret society. Our professor later informed us they were learning Vietnamese.

This is what it sounds like:

Professor: Maaaaaaaaww.
Chinese people: Maaaaaaaaww.
Professor: Maaaaaaaaww.
Chinese people: Maaaaaaaaww.
Professor: Maaaaaaaaww.
Chinese people: Maaaaaaaaww.

besides the omnipresent pug, Chinese people are very fond of huskies and samoyeds. The front baskets of bicycles are often filled with fat, curious puppies, and it's not uncommon to see a large man walk down the street cradling a little white ball of fur.

we have four more straight days of class, on Saturday and Sunday, before they have to get rid of us for a week due to the holiday. V. excited for Xishuangbanna!

sirens went off for 13 straight minutes this morning. At first I thought it was just regarding the sort of car accident you might expect from Chinese drivers. But later I found out it was because today is the day Japan invaded China.

I haven't done any reading for my Chinese culture class because of the amounts of homework my indefatigable Chinese professors assign. Every night I have to memorize new characters for the tingxie, write an essay to read aloud before the teacher, figure out complicated grammar exercises, and translate texts. To add insult to injury, the lighting in my dorm room is about what you would expect in a low-security prison. There is no light at my desk so I hunch over by my suitcase. My body keeps flinching as if it wants to get up and turn on the light, only to remember that the pathetic blueish glow illuminating the corner closest to the door is the climax of our room's brightness.

I find this stressful.

in other news, I finally discovered a Chinese dish that I didn't find completely awful. Yunnan is famous for its water-fried cheese. It's the only province in China where you can even find cheese, unless you want the carrot-flavored stuff found in select grocery stores. It tastes like thin crispy slices of mild goat cheese, and is probably also the most unhealthy food in China. Oh wait, except for everything else. Today I think I actually improved the nutritional content of my lunch by adding a diet coke and a Snicker's bar. I am dying to eat something not slathered in chilis and drenched in oil. Indian again tonight.

People who say Chinese food is good are lying.

Some very exciting activities are on the horizon. This weekend we are going to the Stone Forest, one of the coolest places in China and coincidentally only a few hours' bus ride from Kunming. During National Week, where Chinese people go on a free-for-all, a few of us are going trekking in Xishuangbanna, the southern part of Yunnan and the only part of China located in a tropical rainforest. It's supposed to be interesting because of its Dai people and its elephants, and I look forward to exploring some villages.

The groups we learn about in lecture are right outside, waiting to sell you noodles, or right in the hallways, attending classes. There's the Dai, the Bai, the Yi, the Miao, the Naxi. I can't keep track of all of them but it's very cool. In November I am going to be spending a month on Lugu Lake studying the Mosuo people, in a place rumored to be more Tibetan than Tibet. Looking forward to some yak butter tea (...) (...) (no). But the rest of it should be awesome!

I can't believe I spent this much time on my blog instead of doing homework.

come now, aren’t classes in study abroad supposed to be fake? I was preparing to indulge myself in the joke, enough to please Tufts to allow me transfer of credit, while really being a tourist in disguise and spending my days exploring the city. But I barely even have time to see the mingsheng guji of Kunming because I must always instead go to the library to learn vocab and translate Cinderella and The Departed into Mandarin and struggle with grammar structures quite above where I left off in Chinese 4. I am very shaky at speaking, and my nerves are made worse by the bell (Chinese universities have bells?) that goes off every twenty minutes like an oven timer (always when I am mid-sentence). The commuter rail in the backyard is mind-boggling loud, and there is some sort of construction either in the room next to, above, or below us, though I have never actually seen anyone with a hammer or nail. Two nights ago my roommate and I were awoken by a man shouting hysterical obscenities at the door of the woman who lives across the hall.

Every day when I walk to class I am stared at. It’s like some warped version of high school. Chinese girls hold hands and Chinese boys perpetually have their arms around each other, and their heads follow me when I walk by. There is nothing as frustrating as being trapped in a mob of Chinese students, who walk haphazardly and at a snail’s pace. I race and duck, trying to discern a logical pattern to their movement as I rush up the seven flights of stairs to my class. If anyone is capable of blocking an entire stairwell with naught but her own tiny frame, it is a Chinese student heading to class. One time I was caught behind a group of people eating corn on the cob.

Every morning we take a break between Chinese classes to do taijiquan in the courtyard with a spry old taiji master. You’d think we were the Olympics by the crowd of Chinese students we attract. They gawk and even take pictures, standing there for the entirety of our stretches and jabs. I’ve never been so aware of my whiteness.

My point not to suggest that I'm having a hard time, but to emphasize that studying abroad is no rocks for jocks. At least not here. It’s really hard to integrate into Chinese culture. We don’t like to eat what they eat, and we don’t wear the things they wear, and we constantly astound each other with our own cultural norms. I said “sorry” too much when I lived in the United States; here, I once said “duibuqi” after narrowly avoiding a collision on a hiking trail, and was met with astonishment at the fact that I had even thought to apologize. Crossing the road the other day, I started screaming when the line of buses and motorcycles suddenly broke free of the red light and came charging at me. The accents here sometimes make me feel like I’d never left Boston, hearing pronunciations like “idea-er” and “empher-size.”

Thursday we heard from a remarkable guy, a 90-year old man who was imprisoned under Mao for twenty years. He had sad old man eyes and responded “much obliged” whenever someone brought him some tea. We’ve been studying the Mao era this week, and I never got how messed up China was until I got here. I asked the old man how people still respected Mao here, never disputing his tyranny yet at the same time paying homage to his tomb and praising his contribution to Chinese history. How is that possible? It’s a walking contradiction, but people don’t bat an eye. I don’t think I can ever understand.

today was Teacher's Day, to honor our teachers' virtues, pains, and contributions, so instead of class we went to some temples in the western hills of Kunming. I could visit temples forever. I could do a trip that was just the temples and small dogs of China. We drove in an old bus up some truly terrifying roads that would put Bolivia to shame, into the forest and mountains overlooking the valley of Kunming, and explored the expanse of temples built clinging onto the mountainside. The stairs kept going up and up, through little passageways in the rock face, from one altar to the next.

some of us decided to try to get to the peak of the mountain from the topmost pagoda. Climbing up the karst alleys on all fours was some of the most fun I've had on this trip; we weren't sure how we would get back down but we just kept on going. Finally we got to the top, and had the most drop-dead gorgeous view of Dianchi Lake, which is vibrant green, and the cookie-cutter mansions dotting the shores on the outskirts of Kunming.

Justin and I got lost climbing back down the mountain and reenacted a scene from a Vietnam war movie in which we were soldiers separated from our unit. When I got home, I washed all the red soil out of my shoes.

classes started this Monday, which were terrifying in a different way. I felt a bit over my head in the advanced class they placed me in, but I'm slowly regaining my footing. Every day I get breakfast and lunch from the street vendors in the alley, at a cost of between $0.35 and $0.50 cents. At night, we go to "western street," which has almost no westerners, and treat ourselves to Indian food and falafel, where dinner might run as high as $3.

I still can't believe I'm in China. The times I can't believe it most are when I go to the bathroom and find myself staring at a hole in the ground.

I couldn't describe Kunming as beautiful. I couldn't describe China as a whole as beautiful; it's more awe-inspiring. It's a parallel universe. There have been moments in the trip so far where the horizon was filled with nothing but mountains, jungle, and Buddhist temples, and there are certainly parks in Kunming that make my jaw drop open. But for the most part, it's a gritty, poor city, where almost nothing is sleek and the air reeks of car exhaust. My dorm is off a dirt alleyway filled with street vendors, a short walk from the rocky train tracks that bustle with people regardless of whether a train is coming or not. My hallway has the other twelve kids on my program plus some Chinese students at Yunnan Nationalities University, the school in the city that caters to minority groups and the university at which the program is based. My roommate, in a twist, is named Courtney Morse; she is also a vegetarian.

today Courtney, Justin and were sent on our "drop off." We were given a sheet of paper with chinese characters and told we had six hours in which to find it. Ours read "da guan lou," so we set out from the university, past Green Lake Park with its inflatable cars for rent in the shape of animals, past all the stores that sold shoes and tea accessories and mensware, looking for some sort of building that might possess any kind of view. What we ended up at a "Western Playground," which turned out to be a theme park hidden in the forest next to a polluted lake with some of the scariest rides I have ever seen. There was also a sort of mini-Olympics in which Chinese people gathered in hordes to watch their compatriots complete the monkey bars and raft across an expansive inflatable pool.

everywhere I go I am used to Latin America, where the men catcall and small children come up to sell you baskets of gum. Chinese people for the most part seem oblivious to the fact that there are any foreigners among them; it is as if they have deemed their enormously favorable balance of trade more than enough to compensate for their lack of desire to hawk small dolls on the street. I've never been anywhere so cheap in my life, I'm not sure I've even spent $13 dollars in the week I've been here. The flavors are exotic and tolerable up to a certain point, I've eaten hundred-year-old eggs, lukewarm soy milk, and all sorts of roots and fungus, which were good enough. I hid behind my vegetarianism when duck head and eel and insects were brought out. I crave bread and cheese, and already feel nauseous at the thought of eating another bowl of squishy noodles.

the lights in my hallway switch on with a clap, or really whenever someone opens a door or says something a little too loud. The toilets can only be described as holes in the ground--I may now know how the asian squat came into existence. Small dogs everywhere are well-groomed. No one, no one, no one speaks English. My pants will soon expand beyond recognition without a dryer to shrink them down.