SJ Rozan

Clouds split: blue sky wedge

Reflected as triangle

In choppy river.

Mallards out in force:

Three pairs plus one single male

Nibbling at seawall.

Out of gray morning

Sun rays pick yellow ferry,

Green tugboat, red crane.

Cold weekend morning.

I drink hot tea by window.

Seagulls swoop below.

Tourist boats stay docked.

Empty barges cut white wakes,

Heading for their loads.

Tower being built,

Fantastic shape, soaring high.

Gray clouds slide above.

One of my favorite things is to sit in a hotel room drinking tea before I start my day. Because I’m never in a hotel unless I’m at a conference or doing some heavy sightseeing, these may well be the only relaxed moments I get. I’m doing that right now, in an astounding hotel room — courtesy the Literary Festival, pictures coming — drinking actually delicious tea, overlooking the Huangpu River in downtown Shanghai. I have a Festival lecture to attend soon, my own gig later and a dinner date, but right now, I’m watching the river and about to write this week’s haiku. In the meantime, because I seem to have good internet access (spotty in China) I thought you’d enjoy these. They’re all taken from my room. If you’re seeing this on Facebook, by the way, it’s because a friend is posting for me. Facebook’s still blocked in China.

huangpu river, blue sky day

the bund from my room

shadow of my hotel on construction site

view from my room at night

old ship, new ship

First of all, at this airport if you really want to lounge they have a Snooze Lounge. I don’t have all that much time, however, so I’m sitting not far from my gate eating a roast chicken and apricot sandwich on walnut bread from Starbucks, drinking black tea with hot milk from Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, under a glass-floored fountain that’s not quite as well-sealed as they might think: it drips occasionally on the chair opposite me, which might account for the fact that I’m alone. Or maybe I just look forbidding. Across the concourse looms a giant Tissot ad featuring Tony Parker, an NBA player who’s the son of an African-American father and a Dutch mother, and who was born in Belgium and raised in France. Two women in saris just got off the little golf cart that’s taking them to their flight. It’s waiting for them while they nip into the duty-free and buy Irish whiskey. A vast crowd, maybe 30, Indonesian Muslims, the man in white pillbox hats and the women in white headscarves and all of them in identical pale blue shirts and trousers, are working their way through security. How do I know they’re Indonesian? I asked, not them but someone else. The couple to my right are speaking Mandarin; to my left, two men whose language I don’t know. Oh, Singapore.

Early morning haze.

Three women practice tai chi

On concrete rooftop.

Tourists unfold maps,

Debate destinations, fold,

March steadily off.

Buses, motorbikes,

Cars, bikes, people, migrating

Past hotel window.

Okay, I admit it, I’m blogging at you from beside the pool at my hotel in Singapore. This is slightly less fabulous than it sounds — yes, there are palm trees and bougainvillea, and yes, friends in the northeast US, it’s 89 degrees. But this is Singapore. Tall and aggressively undistinguished buildings surround this 5th floor roof deck on every side and the roar of air conditioning units just about drowns out the jovial conversation of the two Dutchmen sunning themselves on the opposite side of the pool. Still, it’s a rare moment of not running around for me, and two magpies are bathing on that infinity edge that’s all the rage in pool design these days.

I’m here for two reasons: to be a writer-in-residence at Singapore Management University, and to attend and speak at a conference at that same university on Women in the Community. Two years ago I was here for the same conference. That time I keynoted; this time I gave the closing plenary. In case you’re wondering, though if you speak at conferences you probably know this, keynoting is easier. You kick the thing off, give an overview of thoughts on the subject, get everyone excited about the next few days. When you close, you’re supposed to tell everyone what just happened and send them forth armed with new inspiration based on the things you all discussed and learned. Except only a person much braver than I am would wait until all the panels, workshops, etc. were over to write the closing speech and then deliver it twenty minutes later. So I wrote it last week, and had to scribble in the margins to keep up with two days’ worth of speakers. The conference was terrific, and of course most of what goes on here is discussion of women’s situations from a Southeast Asian perspective, which we don’t see in the US very much at all. I found it fascinating. I certainly wasn’t the only American woman here, though. Among others, Isabel Wilkerson, author of the THE WARMTH OF OTHER SUNS, spoke on the Great Migration of blacks Americans from the south to the north in the 20th century. What a great talk! Can’t wait to read the book — which the American Consul supplied in the bags for the speakers. How cool is that? Plane reading crossing the ocean, for sure.

I think I did okay, though. I showed these two film clips — one and two — as part of my talk, so what could be bad?

… from the last few days, but I’m way too exhausted to do them tonight. But here’s a placeholder, from today.

Got to Newark airport at 7:00 am for a 10:00 am plane because it was Monday, and the lines on Monday mornings can be longer than a Tan Dun opera. You can’t check in online for a flight to China, because they need to see the famous visa; so after the usual difficulty about finding my reservation (I don’t know, but it always happens when I check in at the airport) I got my ticket printed and headed to security. I fly enough to be Premier Silver on United, which gets you very little except access to the Premier security line which is shorter than the normal line. So I head over there, but the guard glances at my ticket and says, “Not that line. TSA Pre-Check, over there.”

“What’s TSA Pre-Check?” I ask.

She points and says, “Over there.”

I head over there, not knowing what’s going on and grumpy because I’m thinking this is just another level of screw-up and I want my Premier short line. When I get there I ask the guy behind me what this means. He says, “Oh, it’s great, you’ll love it.” And he’s right. Turns out the TSA has a program whereby, using reasoning known only to themselves, they elect some passengers for Pre-Check, and your ticket will say so. Mine did, but I didn’t notice. This means they find you so unthreatening you can go through without taking off your shoes, taking your liquids out, taking your laptop out, any of that. It’s like you’re actually somebody, though I have a feeling it’s really reverse profiling. I fly so often and I haven’t made any trouble yet, so they’re cool with me.

So I breeze through and have two full hours to spend before my plane even boards, much less takes off. Then fifteen hours in the air to Shanghai, where I’m transiting to Singapore. That’s where I am now. They have this ridiculous system in Shanghai where you have to go out through immigration and customs, then go upstairs, go back in through i & c a minute later, and security again, and find your connection. Most airports make you do that only if you need to pick up a bag and re-check it; otherwise there’s a secure transit zone from one gate to another. I have only a carry-on. Still, there I was, doing all this nonsense, and it’s a good thing I had the time. But the better thing is, the X-ray lady didn’t like my bag because it had a scissors in it. No it doesn’t, say I. Yes it does, says the man she sends me to. He unpacks all my fabled packing, can’t find it, keeps checking her X-ray photo — and holy Toledo, if he doesn’t find, in the torn lining of my small backpack that was packed in my suitcase for use when I arrive, my favorite tiny scissors I lost six months ago! And he let me keep it!

I needed to re-pack, of course, which wasn’t easy, but it gave me something to do in the Shanghai airport. And now I’m waiting for my plane to Singapore. Talk to you from there.

About to unplug the laptop and slip it in the backpack. Will blog at you from the airport, no doubt, and then as I can from points east. Although, this being my birthday, certain wiseacres suggested I sign off with the Beatles singing “When I’m 64”, to them I say, quoting Ogden Nash, “Pooh.” No, I leave you with something much more appropriate: this. Be good and stay well.

Half-moon in streaked sky.

River here white, there bright blue.

Sun throws long shadows.

Benches sittable,

Pathway melting ice, puddles.

Friends stop by to chat.

Bufflehead swims near,

Stops, gives us time to admire —

Then lifts, arches, dives.