clarahsu – Page 22

Strong Women, Great Voices

Svetlana Spajic came on the stage and gave a simple bow. Dressed in traditional Serbian outfit she looked like a little ethnic doll. When she sang her voice was robust and rhythmic and the notes were sustained by strong pulses . Svetlana sang traditional Serbian and Balkan songs unaccompanied to a packed house at Counter Pulse. For nearly an hour she sang with great energy.

“She smokes,” said Dore, who interviewed her last week in his radio show, “don’t know how she can sing like this.”

Svetlana was joined by the American women vocal ensemble Kitka in the second half. I was struck by the new faces on stage. Years have lapsed since I last heard the group and their members used to frequent Clarion. Some have retired and others left for their own career, but Kitka still maintain their unmistakable sound. Women voices, strong, lush, and the chest voice gives resonance and purity like that of adolescents.

We went to say hello to Svetlana after the concert.

“Was it too long?” she asked, then made her own conclusion, “my solo was too long.”

Not when you get to hear something so rare by driving to the Mission instead of traveling over six thousand miles to Serbia.

Reading At the Li Po Lounge

Li Po conjures up poetry and wine. What is more appropriate than having a reading at the Li Po Lounge in Chinatown? Last night the moon is thin like a sickle, not the bright moon that Li reached and literally died for. But it will fatten up some what between now and next Tuesday, when verses will be spoken there along with flowing liquor.

I have never set foot in the Li Po Lounge, although I have worked in Chinatown for nearly 30 years. Sometimes a peek through their half-opened door I sensed an isolated world of (mostly) old men drinking into oblivion. Now, poetry will bring a fuller experience in the dimly lit den and Chinatown itself, where culture is the lion dance or a fortune cookie.

If the Chinese children learn poetry at all they learn in the classroom. But I think Li Po is not there. He would not be pleased to see such orderliness, but turn the corner to Grant Ave where the double red door awaits.

Photo from fecalface.com

The Wind Turned

Warming on a winter day. Surprising after a night of rain. The streets were still glistening when we walked out, hatless and without gloves. Portland’s streetcars were built in the Czech Republic, a sign read. (They reminded me of Prague). A sleepy city during the day and sleepier in the night, I wondered about the mostly empty restaurants, and how the block-long Powell’s Books stay in business. In its rare book room they displayed Ginberg’s Howl and William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch (first editions). Both had a price tag of $2000.

I had a taste of Portland’s finest croissant and macaroon with raspberry filling, Killer Dave’s bread, crayfish sushi and Pok Pok wings (and not so tasty wontons). The exquisite Chinese Garden I carried it in my mind. The time spent with Julia, Brent and Morty was pleasurable. But the pull to leave was made stronger by the messages left on my phone. It was time to go home.

Lanterns in the study, Chinese Garden. Photo by Brent Beneway.

The Missing Gene

“The difference between bargaining and outwitting someone is that one is a game of respect and the other is about winning and losing,” said Morty, who spent a good part of his career in fashion negotiating contracts in many parts of the world.

“In the Middle East, for example, you are talking about centuries of practice. The art of bargaining is ingrained in the people’s genes. Unbeknownst to many Americans, as soon as you step into their territory, the game begins.

“The pleasure is in the process–the rapport that develops during the giving and taking–is, in a sense, more important than money.

“The deal is, both sides need to walk away with good feelings and no one loses face.”

“What about the Asians?” I asked Morty.

“You’d better know all your numbers before going in. They are willing to let you walk away. It’s more like a test of the will.”

“I think I’m missing the number gene,” I sheepishly confessed.

The Good Wonton

“Go down three blocks on 4th Ave. The hole in the wall place is called Good Taste. My co-worker from Beijing said it’s the best,” said the helpful lady at the door, who sold us tickets to Portland’s famous Chinese Garden.

After visiting the stunningly beautiful courtyard and gardens, all in traditional Chinese style, we decided to forgo their elegant tea house for the recommended “Good Taste.”

“Good Taste” was indeed a small family establishment. We each ordered wonton soup. My first bite reminded me that I was not in San Francisco. Second bite told me the seasoning was all wrong. When I looked up from my bowl I found my daughter Julia and her boyfriend Brent wolfing down their portions like there was no tomorrow.

“It’s delicious!” cooed Julia. And Brent nodded eagerly in agreement.

The little cloud-like morsels with shrimp and ground pork filling are probably one of the easiest things to make. Yet in this restaurant they tasted like wet Italian meatballs.

“It’s because you’ve forgotten the taste of good wontons,” I said to them. But the real reason, to me, was that they had neglected to put in the secret ingredient: love.

Photo by Arthur Che.

The First Red Envelope

For children, Chinese New Year means receiving money in red envelopes. All I had to utter was “Gung Hay Fat Choy” and the elders would gladly hand one over. I used to collect many on the first day when my family and I visited our relatives, and felt rich and happy.

On our way to the airport this morning I said Happy New Year to the shuttle driver, who was Chinese. He corrected me that the New Year was not today (Sunday) but tomorrow. We conversed in Cantonese, reminiscing about the festivities, the food, and the excitement that led to the first day.

“It’s different here,” he sighed. “People don’t celebrate so much.”

When we arrived at the terminal I handed him a red envelope.

“Thank you,” he laughed, waving it in the air, “my first one!”

Last Meal of the Year

The Imperial Seafood Restaurant on Balboa Street was filled with customers tonight. Not the intimate twosomes or threesomes, but families: the baby, the young, the middle-aged, the old, the unborn, etc.. Seated at big round tables, they ordered stir-fried lobsters, Dungeness crabs, orange colored steamed prawns, jade-green vegetables, fried squabs, steamed fish, and so on.

An old man got up from his table and patted his stomach. “I feel better now,” he turned to me, smiling.

“That’s good because it’s freezing outside.” I said.

“Waiting for a table?”

“No, take out. My father’s too old to get out.”

“How old?”

“Ninety-one.”

“Oh he’s a baby! It’s better to eat here. Good atmosphere.”

This was probably the most important meal for Chinese families, coming together to celebrate the end of the year. After waiting for nearly half an hour my take-out finally appeared.

At home, my father was pleased with the “three-stuffed jewels”, roast pork, greens and turnip cakes.

Consider the Chinese Zodiac

If my ex-husband and I had consulted the Chinese zodiac before getting married, we might have saved ourselves a lot of grief. But information in the late 70’s was not so readily available, and we would not have believed the predictions except for happy lies. Now with a click of the mouse, I find out between his animal year and mine there is only friendship.

In hindsight—always in hindsight—I see the hand writing on the wall. Maybe it is time to consider the zodiac more seriously. In any case, the storm that is raging outside at the moment is ushering in the dragon. I’m ready for change.

Faces in a Bus

It was seven in the evening and raining. As I sat down in the #44 bus I glanced around me. Everyone’s face, including mine, was expressionless. Except for a hello to the bus driver, there were no eye-contact, no exchange of pleasantry between the riders. We were merely cargo being transported from here to there.

A boy opposite from where I was sitting hid his face on top of a soft carrying bag, which he clutched tightly on his lap. If he was sleeping he had assumed a strange position. From Glen Park to Mission Street he never raised his head, and I seemed to hear muffled groans as the bus rattled on. People got on and off without paying him attention and my stop was quickly approaching.

“Are you alright?” I went over and sat next to him after someone got up.

“No,” the boy looked up. Tears were rolling down his face. A pool of water was collected on his bag.

In the next thirty seconds he told me someone broke up with him because he said he was too young.

“I’m sorry,” I put my arm around him. I had missed my stop. “But I can tell you definitely that things will get better. You have to be strong.”

The lady across from us handed him a tissue paper.

“I’ll try,” he sobbed.

I got off the next stop, feeling sad.

We were not cargo after all.

Soul Buying

Guqin, the seven-stringed Chinese zither was an instrument of the soul. A symbol of culture and refinement, the instrument appeared often in Chinese brush paintings: a hermit or a scholar playing the guqin next to a waterfall, under a tree or in the mountains. Sometimes it was carried on the back of a young boy–an assistant to the player. Unlike other musical instruments, the guqin was not used as entertainment, but a subtle way of communication between intimate friends.

All that has changed, according to David Wong, who has been going back to China to study with the masters. Guqin has become a fashionable trend and a symbol of culture for the rich. The demand sends the prices soaring not only because the makers see an opportunity to make money, but inexpensive guqins are deemed unworthy by the customers.

300,000 RMB (around $42,000) for the most supreme soul. But who does it speak to, and who is listening?