Beijing Tai Tai

by Tania McCartney

  Even though I’m living in China, I’m going to publish the book in Australia, and this is actually quite easy to do. I’ve researched ISBNs, barcodes, Cataloguing-in-Publication-Data entries, printers and more. Once you set your mind to it, these things are surprisingly easy to sort (thanks, Google).

  The next thing I did was advertise for an illustrator, which I did online. Honestly, I was shocked with the mass response from all over the world (thanks, internet). Out of that batch of talent, I have chosen a very clever fellow who lives in Canada, of all places. Hey, the world is so teensy now, I’m sure we can make this work ( eeep!).

  Will it work? You’ll soon find out. Amazing how things fall into place when you know something is right. And when you just don’t give up.

  Now, there’s a novel idea.

  The Great Costume Caper

  It’s a superhero thing

  When we left Australia for Beijing, my kids’ dress-up box consisted of a stash of second-hand op-shop finds from the bowels of some nanna’s knicker drawer. Polyester slips, armpit-length gloves and scratchy lawn bowling hats were just about it.

  Since coming to Beijing, this dress-up box looks a little bit different. There are Disney princess gowns of velvet and chiffon with matching be-feathered head-dresses. There are luxuriant, scarlet pirate capes trimmed in gold rickrack to complement satiny ruffled shirts and faux boots built into Jolly-Roger pants. There’s Narnia knights with injury-proofed foam swords, bedazzled mermaids, pixies, race car drivers, catsuits, black-tulle witches, astronauts, ballerinas and more floaty fairies than you can poke a magic wand at. There’s also that kangaroo and koala suit commissioned for UN Day, now apparently called International Day.

  Yes, this dress-up box is truly worthy of any Hollywood movie-set, and I am happy to report its contents are one of the few things my kids consistently and gratefully indulge in.

  I do, however, have a small worry. It’s five-year-old small and consists of a red cape, a blue bodysuit and a large yellow ‘S’ tattooed on the chest (with built-in muscles, thankyouverymuch). Yes, it’s Superman. My son, Superman. My Every Day Every Night Wear to the Shops and Go To Sleep In It son—Superman.

  I know it’s meant to be ‘normal’—I know virtually every boy hits the superhero phase just as sure as he’ll hit the monsters-under-the-bed phase (isn’t that a sleep-sapper?). But can one small boy really surrender himself so totally and unyieldingly to the Superman phenomenon?

  When it started, we had every window in our high-storey apartment welded shut. We bought a mini trampoline. We forgave his kryptonitesque aversion to any food that resembled green. We forbade Ayi to wash the Suit lest it become unavailable for wear in the time it took to whip it off, leap into the bath in a single bound and dry oneself faster than a speeding bullet.

  So the Suit is looking a little worse for wear. It’s pilling, lumpy and lopsided. It’s maybe even a little smelly, but that’s okay. It’s not the outside that counts, after all, and it’s great to know that despite this (hopefully temporary) obsession, inside the Suit is a truly super little man.

  Self-Publishing in Beijing II

  Challenges and obstacles? Outta my way!

  Well, things are going really well. As well as can be expected when you decide you’re just going to go ahead and publish a book yourself.

  Did I really expect things to go sailingly smooth?

  I’ve had some illustrator niggles, some time issues, some software issues, printer issues and cataloguing issues. Also some computer issues. Our old PC decided to up and die on us last week. It was clutching at its last dying breath when its antiquated carcass (only born in 2004!) finally succumbed. A terrifying event, and one I didn’t really need at the time.

  Yes, I was backed up but it was still an unwanted drama, especially considering the fact that I’m not only trying to publish this children’s book, I’m also trying to finish a book for adults—a compilation of my diaries, magazine columns and blogs (you’re reading it! hallelujah! I got it finished!)—all within the next three months.

  Along with packing up and leaving Beijing (you should see the troves of ribbon I have to sort through and don’t even start me on the handbag and wooden toy collections) and trying to prep a new life in Australia, you could say I’m mildly stressed.

  Or just daft.

  Nonetheless. Challenges and obstacles? Outta my way! My belly is on fire and nothing is going to stop me powering through and getting these awfully large dreams of mine out of La La Land and into Reality. I’ll be hauling them out kicking and screaming like a newborn babe.

  Don’t they say persistence is everything? Sheesh. Persistence is tough! But easier to handle when your belly is on fire.

  Beijing’s Little Quirks

  How a little raspberry typifies life in the capital

  Let me regale you with a tale about a young girl who was born on the southern tip of an island called Tasmania. This small island lies at the bottom of Australia—a large, red, ancient landmass that fits snugly against Asia’s underbelly and has spouted such gems as Mel Gibson, Nicole Kidman and Coopers Ale.

  Few know much about this island—Tasmania—but it is a hidden jewel of rugged mountain wilderness, untouched bays, stunning rivers, crisp apple orchards, and the best raspberries in the world. In fact, this little girl spent her first ten years with a permanent raspberry stain around her mouth (like she had got into mummy’s red lipstick).

  In the north of the island, her grandfather and hero—Bampa—a photographer, journalist, historian and avid gardener, grew lashings of this beaded, celestial fruit. And every time the little girl visited her Bampa, she was treated to an extra special tub: a big fat 2-litre icecream tub of the most divine, sweet, rosy, fragrant raspberries any mouth could possibly imagine. No one was allowed to dive into that tub except that little girl. Bampa even wrote her name across the top of the tub in big, bold letters: TANIA.

  You could say I am now a bit of a raspberry aficionado. Yes, yes, if I was stranded on a desert island and could only take one food with me ... you guessed it.

  So. Today I scooped natural yoghurt, home-baked oats and a sprinkling of roasted almonds and pepitas into my breakfast bowl, and on top, a flourish of fresh Beijing raspberries. As they tumbled into the bowl, my heart fluttered. They’re good raspberries. They’re not Bampa’s raspberries and the seasonal quality only lasts a short while, but they are still good.

  In true Beijing style, what I love most about these Beijing raspberries is that they’re ‘unfinished’. They’re not processed to within an inch of their juice. They are fresh from the garden, a little dusty, and some are imperfect. But what strikes me most about these Beijing raspberries is this: some of them still have the stem attached.

  Now, I’m not joking when I say I’ve eaten more raspberries than all of you put together. I’ll pass up a trip to the movies in favour of a punnet of raspberries in Australia (yes, they cost as much as a movie ticket sometimes). So, you must believe me when I say I’ve sighted and devoured many a sweet little burgundy jewel.

  So how is it that I had to come to Beijing to view my very first be-stemmed raspberry, ever? When I first picked it up and looked at it, the sight kind of got stuck in my eye like a wooden stick. It wouldn’t fit. I turned that raspberry over and over and thought ‘My God, this has never happened to these eyeballs before. What a marvellous visual treat. How could I have waited so long to see this? What went wrong with my life?’

  This might seem like a small thing to you, but to me, this raspberry-stem-sighting (and subsequent gentle stem-plucking—oh, how satisfying) typifies Beijing to me.

  This is a place where you’ll see severed pigs’ heads next to your Italian tinned tomatoes at the wet market. This is where you’ll see women in restaurants whizzing with the door open. This is where you’ll see cow belly being sliced on an outdoor table next to scorpions on sticks at the night market on Wangfujing. This is where you will see Chinese tots laying a new sewer system on the street. Th
is is where you’ll find a greater selection of green vegetables than all the tea in China. This is where you’ll see a man blowing snot onto the ground before raking his fingers through freshly cut noodles in a filthy tub in the hutongs. This is where you’ll see an elderly woman pedalling her frail husband on a three-wheeler bicycle among the streaming vehicles on Dongzhimenwai Dajie.

  And this is where you’ll find raspberries with stems attached.

  How could I ask for a better experience for my children? I’m keeping that damn raspberry and I’m showing it to my children before they get to my ripe old age and miss out.

  But seriously, how did this raspberry-stem oversight happen to me? I’ve thought about it at length and I think I know how.

  We grew mulberries in our yard in Tasmania. We grew loganberries, peaches, plums and nectarines, but no raspberries. So, horror of horrors, I’ve never actually seen them on a bush. And whenever we visited Bampa, his raspberry crop was already harvested—ready and waiting in that big fat ice-cream tub ... waiting so long for me, the bottom fruit had turned to a puddle of red.

  And where were the stems?

  I guess my Bampa had spent countless man-hours shucking every last raspberry so I could scoop them straight from tub to eagerly awaiting mouth.

  Now that’s love. Miss you, Bampa.

  Self-Publishing in Beijing III

  I’m juggling and I’m dropping a few balls

  Where does time go? Really?

  I wrote this children’s book nearly two years ago and it’s only being published now. This is typical of any writer trying to publish a book; in fact, it normally takes many years from initial concept to sale time and this book has been no exception. But I have a greater issue with time on this one. It’s because we’ll soon be leaving Beijing and I’m quite literally running out of it.

  Now that the process of self-publishing has begun, I’ve discovered things can most certainly gobble up time. A lot of time. I desperately wish I could claim some of my Beijing years back to fit all this waiting in but I can’t. I have to solider on even though I’m seriously down to the wire. Only half my illustrations are done, I still have photographs to take ... and my book launch is just weeks away.

  Am I barking mad? Yes. Yes I am. But when you love something that much, don’t you go crazy for it? I may be on the verge of mental collapse but my body just keeps going, hauling my brain along inside its skull. Nonetheless, today my brain brought me to tears as I was juggling twenty balls in the bathroom. It might be the exhaustion talking, but I seem to be dropping a few balls lately.

  Last night, my daughter Ella sat on my lap and wept because she said I was so busy on the weekends that I didn’t spend enough time with her. It broke my heart. She has every right to cry; I have been busy.

  I gently explained to her that the book is almost ready, that I’ll soon have more time for her, that this is an amazing, gut-wrenching, life-changing, motherlode of personal passion in the unfolding that I have no choice but to pursue. She just looked at me blankly.

  In truth, these kinds of statements are hard for a kid to understand because they look at you and all they see is ‘Mum’. They don’t see a woman or a person; they only see a mother. They don’t realise mothers are people, too—that they have flaws and dreams and needs and desires and passions. And it’s absolutely right that all Ella sees is a mother. I wouldn’t have it any other way nor expect anything less.

  It’s just tough sometimes.

  I’m absolutely loving this publishing process. I’m in my element and the excitement is building exponentially but it’s just a little hard to balance my roles right now. But then, I suppose if anyone can juggle a dozen roles, it’s a woman.

  Right, sisters?

  The Great House Hunt

  Buying real estate sight-unseen

  Here’s a question for you.

  How many people have bought a family home 9029 kilometres from Beijing, sight-unseen? Come to think of it, given the nature of this expat life, probably quite a few. But it’s our first time. We are sight-unseen real-estate virgins.

  Let’s just say, thank goodness I’m so busy with my work, wrapping up our lives and pining for our Christmas holiday because if I was somewhat idle, I’d have been committed to a home for nutbags by now.

  Last week, we sold our house in Australia. It is the house Xiansheng and I lived in when we were first married. It is the house we brought babies home to and the house first steps were taken in. It’s a small house but it was idyllic, in a leafy suburb, with a cubby house out the back and tongue-and-groove feature walls. It had a loving spirit residing within, and it’s no wonder it sold within two weeks on the market. It was a beautiful home.

  Alas, it’s ours no longer. We sold it without even saying goodbye. It hasn’t hit me yet. I’m too busy to think about it, but when it does hit me, a tonne of bricks will fall on my heart.

  Onward. We now have to find another beautiful home to move into. In a different city, in a different Australian state.

  We’ve lived temporarily in this city before but we really don’t know much about it. We don’t know the schools; we don’t know the suburbs; we don’t know the good, the bad or the ugly. Thank goodness for angelic friends who have helped fill in the gaps and have spent valuable hours videoing dwellings and sending them by email. What would we have done without them?

  Nonetheless, despite the priceless help, this house-hunting via the internet has been an experience I wouldn’t wish on many. It’s been searching and seeking and pitfalls and highs, followed by excitement, hope, disappointment and disillusionment, overlaid with the uneasy awareness that we’ll have to pay a hell of a lot more for a house than we ever dreamed. Like, a lot more.

  It’s been tough. And we haven’t even put in a single offer yet.

  Tomorrow we may be doing just that. There are two houses we’re interested in and they’re beautiful but they’re going to mean at least two years of baked-bean dinners and no holidays, no no. Will it be worth it? How can we buy a bricks and mortar shell from the other side of the world and move in and make it a home? Isn’t a home all about the spirit that resides within; the warmth that descends on you like a rug when you walk in? Doesn’t a house really choose us?

  I have to have faith. I’m putting out the call and hoping it carries far across the Pacific Ocean to our new Aussie dwelling. I’m hoping our house hears us. I’m hoping this house will heartily embrace us and distract us from the angst we’ll be feeling over leaving Beijing (which is a whole other issue).

  It’s a huge life moment for our family.

  For goodness sake, will someone please hurry up and invent tele-transportation? I need to beam myself into a kitchen or two. And a shopping centre ... and a park ... and a school...

  Self-Publishing in Beijing IV

  I’m ready, baby...

  Since my last, emotional report on self-publishing, I’m officially back to business. I took a chill pill, re-sought my equilibrium, spent some more time with my daughter, and got a little more sleep. I also got some exercise because my body atrophied into the sitting position, with my hands curved into typing claws and my neck permanently craned forward, with a wild, unblinking look in my eye. If you had taken away my chair, I would have been frozen in a sitting position.

  How I long to go for an endless, undulating, spine-stretching swim off Nha Trang. Soon enough, my pretties, soon enough. But—to the task at hand...

  I managed to snaffle my last photographs for the book while we had an amazing (short-lived) stretch of gorgeous, clear weather recently. My very tardy illustrator sent in his last piece and I let out a little peep of excitement when I took that artwork, configured it onto its page and clicked the save button on my graphic design software for the very last time.

  I started emailing pages to my printer, after checking last week if things were on track, in terms of file size and quality. All good. Then they came to my house, took the files, went away, made a proof, brought it back and show
ed me.

  Yes, there were tears. It looks beautiful. And thank the heavens it looks even better than I had envisaged in my head. How many times does something like that ever happen in life? We signed the contract on the spot and, right now, those machines are churning out hundreds of copies of my book.

  My book.

  I can hardly believe this.

  Last week, I managed to garner even more wonderful support for my book launches, I had some advertising material printed, my son Riley gave me official approval on the illustrations for the book, I started prepping goodie bags for the launches and put the sparkling wine in to chill. But the most exciting part of last week was receiving my Cataloguing-in-Publication Data from the National Library of Australia. I ran around like a spinning top screaming when I received this. It looks like real publishing data! Like, with my name and the title and the ISBN and the subject and the edition details and even a Dewey number. I have a Dewey number for goodness sake! A Dewey number!

  Seeing this Dewey number and all these details—well, it was like the pinnacle of achievement for me. After all the stress and intense hard work of these past few months, it finally made things real. Really real. I felt, well ... published.

  I am self-published. For those out there who love to write, can you feel how this makes me feel? And so, without further ado, I announce the arrival of my beautiful new baby—a picture book called Riley and the Sleeping Dragon: A Journey Around Beijing—a tale featuring black and white photos of Beijing coupled with adorable illustrations by my wonderful collaborator (whom I’ve never met because he lives in Canada), Mo Qovaizi.