I recall stepping out into a Prague street.

I recall lying on my back, staring up into the underside of a tram as pain seared through my body.

I just don’t recall what happened in between.

It turns out that just before strolling out onto Vyšehradská Street, a one-way thoroughfare near our hotel, I looked right, into traffic, to ensure the way was clear. Being a one-way street I didn’t look left. An unfortunate oversight since next to the four one-way lanes there was a tram lane, heading the opposite direction, with a huge tram bearing down on me at full speed. I stepped into its path. 

My wife, Soo, barely heard my barked expletive before seeing my body catapulted into the air and hurled several meters down the road. I landed with, I’m told, a sickening splat, and lay unmoving on the tracks as the tram’s brakes squealed in protest.

The violence of the collision probably saved my life. Had I not been thrown so far, the tram would not have had time to stop before crushing me under its steel wheels. Soo arrived at my side just ahead of the tram’s shaken and horrified conductor, who assumed he was approaching a corpse.

The butcher’s bill was a fractured hip, a couple of broken ribs, a bruised lung, other assorted broken and bruised parts and more blood than Soo ever hoped to see covering bits of her husband.

And I was lucky. Oh, so very lucky. My body will heal. I’ll be fine.

My pride, I fear, was fatally wounded.

I’m quite certain that at some point during my formative years my parents mentioned to me that looking both ways before crossing the road was a good idea. They may also have cautioned that it was unwise to step in front of moving trams. And had they failed to impart that nugget of wisdom, one would have thought I could have come up with it myself. This ain’t my first time in the big bad city.

Sadly, because it did not occur to me, I’ll be walking with a limp for some time.

I’ve also given Soo a lifetime of ammunition anytime I start to scold her about something. I can already hear the “Hmmm . . .  you think forgetting to close the garage door is addlebrained? Remember that time in Prague . . . ?”

Our time in what was once one of my favorite cities began almost as conspicuously as it ended. We opted to take the train up from Vienna, both because it’s a grand adventure and because it’s half the price of air travel. This wasn’t one of the flashy high-speed trains crisscrossing Europe, but it was comfortable and a great way to see the countryside.

After a five-hour, trip we arrived in Prague, shuffled out of the train with our heavy, over-sized suitcases and made our way to the taxi stand at the other end of the station. Once there Soo discovered that she’d left her phone on the train and raced back to retrieve it. I waited with the luggage.

Sometime later — and with no sign of Soo — I was beginning to get worried. It was around then that I received a text saying, “I found my phone, but the train left. I’ll get off at the next stop and come back.” My wife, it turned out, had accidentally launched herself on an independent (although blessedly brief) tour of the Czech countryside.

That should have clued me in that this would be an interesting trip.

After Soo’s train adventure, and before I chose to play chicken with a tram, we had a little time to explore this glorious, 1,100-year-old city. Prague is pronounced “Pra-ha” by locals and most of Europe (no clue where the American pronunciation came from. Almost as bad as calling someone named Karluv “Larry” or “Charles.”) It has been said of Prague, “If European cities were a necklace, Prague would be a diamond among the pearls.” It was once the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, has been the capital of countless principalities and empires, is the only Europe capital never to have been attacked and invaded, and features one of the world’s oldest Astronomical clocks, called the Orloj.

This fascinating clock has an equally fascinating history, and its true origin was shrouded in legend for most of the last 600 years. It was believed that it was built by the clock master Hanus, who refused to share construction plans with anyone. The legend goes that when city counselors found out that he was going to make another, even more spectacular clock, they became jealous and blinded him so he could not finish it. Hanus allegedly struck back at his tormentors by damaging the Orloj beyond anyone’s ability to repair it.

Whatever the real story (it’s now believed it was made by Mikuláš of Kadan in 1410,) Prague’s magnificent Astronomical Clock is the third-oldest in the world and the only one still functioning. We couldn’t wait to see it, and explore the medieval Old Town surrounding it.

Though the moat that once protected the city has been covered over by streets, the historic Old Town still feels very much like a gothic fortress.  Its cobblestone streets, imposing towers and multi-pointed spires adorning centuries-old cathedrals give Prague an almost sinister feel at night. And since I face-planted into those self-same cobblestones during what was supposed to be our daylight tour, at-night was the only way I saw the city.

For our only hospital-free night in Prague, we took a friend’s advice and dined at Restaurante Ambiente Brasileiro, a superb Brazilian place in the historic Old Town. 700-year-old catacombs house this spectacular eatery, and we savored great food, French wine and a Cuban cigar while drinking in the dizzying concept of dining in a place almost three times as old as our home country!

After dinner we strolled ‘round the Old Town Square, marveling at the iconic Church of Our Lady and magnificent clock tower, an entire area designated by UNESCO a World Heritage Site.

We were strolling across the magnificent Karluv Bridge (Charles Bridge, to Americans) which looks like something Disney created for Beauty & the Beast, when they turned the lights off for the night. We didn’t mind, assuming we had all the time in the world to explore the next day, or the day after.

Then I picked a fight with a tram, and lost.

There’s a lesson here, one I’m surprised I must re-learn. It’s one we’ve all heard a million times, one we’ve all probably admonished others to do, yet one so easy for us to forget ourselves.

The lesson is this: Live.

Live every moment as if it were your last.

The Romans said “Carpe diem!” In Isaiah 22:13 the Bible says, “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we shall die!” An endless stream of modern pop singers advise us to live like it’s our last day. Whoever the messenger, the message is clear: Appreciate every day, every moment of your life. Don’t put off adventures. Live!

Dorothy Parker once wrote a poem that seems very real to me right now. She wrote:

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren’t lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

Dorothy Parker was right. Live!

Especially if you’re fond of swan dives into moving trams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I stepped outside of Beijing’s international airport, took a deep breath, began to suffocate, and wondered in fury who had stolen all the oxygen.

I’m told Beijing is a beautiful city.

I wouldn’t know – I can’t see it through the smog.

Beijing’s coating of dense, disgusting pollution is legendary. I assure you, the accounts are not exaggerated.

The city apparently shut down factories and banned many cars from the roads in the weeks leading up to the 2008 Olympics in an effort to keep alive those competing in outdoor track events.

Perhaps having realized they have such a problem government officials should seek a more long-term solution?

My colleague Sia told me his first two visits to Beijing ended in him having respiratory problems and nose bleeds. I already have sinus problems; can’t wait to see what kind of a gasping wretch I become by week’s end.

I selected my hotel, the Sheraton Great Wall, because the name lead me to believe it might actually be located somewhere near “The” Great Wall. It’s not, though hotel staff assures me they have a wall that’s pretty neat, too. Beijing and I are off to a rocky start.

Adding insult to Injury, the Sheraton does not offer air conditioning this time of the year. It’s nearly 80 degrees in my room. When I called guest services to address the problem they sent me a fan. Whoopee. Much as I love sweating through my boxers before breakfast, I think I’ll change hotels tomorrow. The Sheraton Great Wall and I will not be friends.

Lunch was an interesting experience. Shuguoyanyi is an elegant restaurant, and the food was mostly delicious.

The “traditional” Chinese dinner theatre, however, was odd. The highlight of the show was a man who danced about flinging a tea pot with an exceptionally long spout all around him, pausing occasionally to pour water in glasses. The rest of the diners seemed impressed. I struggled to understand “tea-pot maestro” as a life goal for a child.

When the theme to Star Wars started blaring out of the speakers during one of the dance routines, I began to suspect this wasn’t a particularly old “traditional” Chinese theatre.

Today’s menu was mild compared to those in recent days. The only moment that gave me pause was when Sia said “You’re eating ass.”
I spit out a mouthful of food, hoped I’d heard incorrectly, and asked him to please repeat his statement.

“Donkey”, he said, “you’re eating donkey.”

On the week Obama comes out in support of gay marriage, I wind up eating ass. Figures.

After lunch we set off on the nearly hour-long drive to the Great Wall.

Mao Zedong once said “he who does not go to The Great Wall is no true man.”

I’ve been twice. Does that make me two men?

What is today one massive wall stretching 5,500 miles from Shanhaiguan in the east, to Lop Lake in the west, the Great Wall was originally a series of smaller walls fortifying small fiefdoms between the 5th and 2nd centuries BC.

Qin Shi Huang conquered all of China in 221 BC, and set about demolishing some walls, and connecting others to defend his little empire. The Qin Dynasty only managed to hang around for 14 years, but during this brief time historians estimate as many as one million Chinese workers died in the building of the wall.

Over the centuries the Great Wall was either allowed to fall into disrepair, or extensively rebuilt, depending on who was in power. This went on until the Ming Dynasty in the 14th century. Following their defeat by the Oirats in 1449, the Ming Army suddenly became quite fond of their little wall, and spent decades reinforcing and expanding it to keep out the Mongol hordes (who had proved quite pesky over the years. Genghis Khan’s Mongol invaders had penetrated the wall in 1215, marking the only known time in the Wall’s history it had failed to halt an invasion.)

The Great Wall, last used as a defensive perimeter during the Japanese invasion of China at the onset of WWII, is endless (nearly 3,900 total miles), so there are many options when visiting. We were taken to the section just outside Mutianyu village, the same region President Clinton toured in 1998.

The village was charming, and plays host to countless merchants hawking can’t miss items like bright yellow t-shirts featuring Mao Zedong or silk robes which you absolutely must have before climbing the Wall. Each merchant seems to be selling exactly the same things and each seem shocked that, having turned down everyone else selling identical items, you’re not just dying to step into their stall and purchase one of everything.

Once you reach the Wall you can’t help but be awed. I’ve of course seen pictures, but it’s another thing entirely to see it up close, and still another thing to walk along its lengths for miles, traversing stairs that can vary drastically in height and depth from one step to the next.  I’m not sure if this is a design flaw or the original worker’s way of getting back at their masters.

(I couldn’t help but have this image of ancient Chinese warriors scurrying around atop the Great Wall during battle, stumbling on misshapen stairs, breaking ankles, weapons flying everywhere. The more I pictured it the more I giggled. I got the simples – couldn’t stop laughing. No one else was in on the joke, no one had even heard a joke uttered. All soon began to fear the Beijing air had finally done me in.)

The ascent to the Wall is made by cable car. To get back down you can take ski-lift like chairs, or a toboggan, which hurtles down a half-enclosed steel tube. It comes with a warning to “Sled at your own risk.”

I have a chemical imbalance which prevents me from resisting these sorts of bad decisions.

I believe I may be the first to shoot down the mountain in a suit. My colleague’s fears about my failing senses were confirmed. But it was worth every minute, ever sickening breath of Beijing’s putrid air, every frustrating minute battling your way through Beijing traffic. The Great Wall is stunning in its grandeur, and I’m honored to have walked its lengths.

I believe I’ve had more people tell me they hate me in the last few weeks than in the last few years combined. The conversations would usually go a little something like this:

“Got any trips coming up?”

“Yeah, one.”

“Oh? Anyplace interesting?”

“Bora Bora.”

“I hate you.”

This flat statement, often hissed between clenched teeth, was usually accompanied by a disgusted stare, occasional pursed lips and even a few flared nostrils.

One colleague eventually graduated from telling me she hated me to telling me on my Facebook page to go “eff” myself.

This is a tad unfair. There are plenty of legitimate reasons to hate me; I like to fart in crowded movie theaters then glare at the person next to me, and I once sodomized a giraffe (long story – she totally had it coming) to name a few. But having the extraordinary fortune to travel to this stunning island shouldn’t earn quite this level of enmity.

Those angry at the thought of this trip will be more revolted to hear that it’s every bit as magical in person as in our imaginings, so much so that for this blog, I’m tempted to simply post a bunch of pictures and write the word “awesome” 417 times.

I fear my boss would find this a tad insufficient, however, and I’m disinclined to make him hate me.

The truth is, Bora Bora is awesome, in the very literal sense of the word.

This is not the “awesome” uttered by legions of Star Trek fans upon learning that Spock will make a guest appearance in the next Trek movie. This is actual awe, jaw-dropping near-disbelief that such a place exists anywhere outside a Hollywood studio. This is earth’s magnificence at its most beautiful, and it really is paradise.

Everyone we met here was celebrating something big – a honeymoon, a 50^th birthday, a 25^th wedding anniversary. This is the place people dream of going, planning for that one special occasion when they can make this fantasy come true.

And it’s worth every dime, every airport layover, every sleepless hour getting here. It’s magnificent.

The island of Bora Bora, one of the Leeward Islands in French Polynesia (better known as Tahiti), is almost wholly encircled by a barrier reef, covered in multi-colored coral and shocking in its abundant sea-life. It’s renowned as one of the best places on earth to dive and snorkel, and lived up to every bit of that reputation.

There are a number of wonderful excursions available in and around the island’s pristine waters, from jet-ski tours to feeding local sea turtles. Soo and I chose, because as our friend noted we’re “quite mad,” to go swimming with sharks.

The reefs around Bora Bora are teeming with sharks, mostly black-tipped reef sharks and lemon sharks.

We joined four other couples (all of whom, surprisingly, were delightful) on a tour out to feed them, and all were encouraged to hop in once the sharks got good and worked up.

Surprisingly, no one really hesitated to do so.

Except for a lunatic French kid whose parents, we believe, were using her as bait, I was the first one in the water. But once Soo became convinced that the sharks didn’t view us as lunch, she hopped right in, and had the time of her life. It was amazing, genuinely breath-taking, with the danger only adding to the surreal excitement. We all agreed that it was an experience we’d never forget (I’m going to write another blog devoted entirely to this).

We swam with about 25 of the reef sharks and about a dozen lemon sharks, all about 4-7 feet long. It was as exhilarating as you would imagine, especially when one would head straight for you seemingly intent on murder, but also oddly peaceful. It was one of the most remarkable experiences of my life. 

Bora Bora, sadly, is not for the faint of wallet. The local assumption seems to be that if you can afford to get here, they’re going to make you pay to be here. This is a shame because we really are on a budget, but Soo and I have decided to pretend all prices are in Pesos, and that makes it ever so much better.  (Things you probably won’t hear from tourists in Bora Bora: “Which way to the Motel 6”, “Do you have change for a $5?” or “Is there a McDonalds nearby?”) Though, truth to tell, I wish there had been a McDonalds, given how dreadful, and obscenely expensive, the food at the Le Meridien was.

It’s a stunning hotel, one of twelve on the island offering those spectacular bungalows on stilts out over the water, and is probably the best value in Bora Bora. The service is excellent, the grounds, including a private lagoon, stunning, but the chef seems to be suffering from some ailment, and determined to take the rest of us down with him.

The best alternative is Bloody Mary’s, one of the most famous restaurants in the world and by far the most famous on in Bora Bora. But it was oddly closed on Saturday (because, we were told simply, “they can.”) So, fleeing anything prepared by the Le Meridien, we headed across the water to Mai Kai, at the Yacht Club.

There are no roads on the reef side of the island so you must take a water taxi, provided at no charge by the hotel, to the main island, and there catch a bus for the 20-minute ride into town.

Town is perhaps too grandiose a way to describe the collection of ramshackle huts and buildings huddled together on the far side of the island, but it passes, and as we noted several times, we really weren’t there for anything on land.

The splendor of Bora Bora tends to run together in your memory, into one long collage of beautiful images. The one adventure seared indelibly into my memory, however, was that which took us out to swim with black-tipped reef sharks, lemon sharks and stingrays.

The listing on the Le Meridian activities menu called this particular excursion a “Ray and Shark Feeding.” The detailed explanation said we’d enjoy an “Island tour in a Polynesian pirogue, 3 stops, beverages & fresh fruits.”

That sounded nice.

It failed to mention that giddy tourists would be encouraged to get in the water, and might actually be the shark food in question.

I was immediately thrilled. So, too, were those hating me for being here, fervently hoping that sharks had a particular affinity for doughy white boys from Georgia.

Apparently they did not. So, to my detractors, please allow me a brief nanny-nanny boo-boo before we proceed.

The sharks failed to eat me, but they did devour every other tasty morsel (tourists excluded) put before them. Splashing amongst them while they did was one of the most exhilarating things I’ve ever done.

Our local guide, Rainui, first took us outside the reef, into water about 7 meters deep, where about 25 reef sharks and about a dozen lemon sharks were circling. He immediately popped into the water and began hand-feeding the sharks, who showed no hesitation in swooping right in. Several of the feeding frenzies we’ve all seen on TV ensued, with many sharks battling it out for tiny morsels. It was into this splendid chaos we dived, and the scene was surreal.

Sharks were everywhere, darting in and out, eagerly hunting food. Many would swim directly at you, veering off only at the last moment when they realized you didn’t have, or weren’t yourself, dinner. They swam so close that we could easily, and often did, reach out and touch them. It was amazing, and none of us, even those few initially unconvinced of the wisdom of jumping into a shark feeding, wanted to get out of the water.

The most remarkable part is that within seconds of being amongst the mighty predators you realize you’ve lost all fear of them. It’s obvious they’re not interested in eating you, and much to your surprise you find yourself relaxing and simply enjoying the splendor of their world.

And suddenly I understood. This place is magical, alluring in ways hard to describe. As we left the hotel after our all-too-brief stay I found myself muttering “I hate you” at those who were just checking in.

 

No city home to both the Sex Museum and the Vodka Museum could fail to be entertaining.

Amsterdam doesn’t disappoint.

The best way to navigate Amsterdam is by bike (Amsterdam is perhaps the most bicycle-friendly city on earth, with bike paths along nearly every street, and nearly 40% of all commutes around town made on bike. The city even actively discourages traveling within the city by car.) Soo and I weren’t quite that energetic after the sleepless overnight flight, not to mention being genuinely lazy, so we opted for the second-best way, by boat.

Known as “The Venice of the North,” Amsterdam has more than 1,500 bridges spanning the 60 miles of canals snaking through the city. A one-hour canal tour costs only 8 €, making it perhaps the best deal in the city.

The tour took us past several houses which appeared to be collapsing into the waters. Our delightful guide explained that they were, in fact, slipping into the water, and that propping them up and repairing them was big business. In typical carefree Dutch fashion the local citizenry jovially refer to these homes as “dancing houses.”

I’m not sure I’d have such a great sense of humor if my home were toppling over into brown water.

We also got to see the world’s narrowest home, a 3-story townhouse on the Singel Canal which is a mere three-feet wide.

You see, in Amsterdam, property taxes have historically been based on how much canal-front space the home occupied. Some enterprising and apparently very thin chap thought to one-up the city by building a house scarcely wider than his door. I haven’t a clue what they use for furniture, but people have been living in it since the 17th century.

After our canal tour we explored the city on foot, and finally stopped in a café for some local fare. We were eager to get advice on what to do at night, so of course everyone that worked there was Pakistani.

One was aggressively stupid.
When they got round to taking our order Soo asked if they had Red Bull.

“Yes, madam” came the immediate response.
“Great. I’ll have a Red Bull and vodka please.”
“Excellent, madam. And you, sir?”
“I’ll have a Red Bull and vodka too,” I said.
“We don’t have Red Bull,” came his immediate response.
I stared for a moment, then looked at Soo, hoping someone would let me in on the joke. When no one did I asked why they had Red Bull 30 seconds earlier when Soo had ordered it.
The waiter turned on his heel and without an apology barked at Soo “No Red Bull!”
“But…”
“NO RED BULL!”
“Uh, ok, sorry, er, vodka cranberry?”
“Vodka tonic. Excellent.”
“Uhhmmmm, thank you.”

You’ve reached a new low when you’re apologizing to your waiter and thanking him for bringing you something different from what you ordered. Many blog readers are by now growing impatient, thinking “ok, great. Pretty canals and narrow houses. Nice. When are we getting to the good stuff?”

After dinner, we got to the good stuff.

Sex and drugs, pot and promiscuity, cannabis and cunnilingus; it is, fairly or unfairly, what modern-day Amsterdam is best known for, and about which an almost cult-like fascination has developed. So many of my friends, none of whom have ever set foot in Amsterdam, are quite certain that it would be the coolest place on the planet to visit, even those who don’t smoke pot. The city simply has a mystical allure hard to describe.

I don’t care for the smell of marijuana, and didn’t smoke any while here, but I like that it’s legal for others to do so.
Marijuana use among minors is lower in Holland, where it is legal, than in America, where it is illegal. Crime is lower in Holland (1.6 million were arrested in America last year along on drug-related charges), and the Dutch government, instead of spending billions locking up millions of its citizens on misdemeanor possession charges, rakes in more than $600 million in annual tax revenue on the legal sale of marijuana.

The Dutch way is better.

It’s all there for you in the Red Light District. Pot, everywhere you look, and women. Ahh, women. Beautiful, nearly-nude women line the streets, beckoning to you from the other side of a full-length display window, tantalizing with promises of a lust-fueled sexcapade. Seventy-five euros will get you “30 minutes of pleasure” with these women, and anything goes. And it’s perfectly legal. It’s Amsterdam.

That’s about the same price a couple will pay for entry into the clubs offering live sex shows.
These range from odd to offensive, with some being downright embarrassing (one pudgy girl at Moulin Rouge is so distasteful that she struggles to find men willing to climb onstage during her act), but few approach real eroticism.

It’s an environment I’ve not found anyplace else on earth, one which has spawned a reputation known and accepted in the remotest of regions, and it’s all a sham.
It’s phony, no more real than the porno depicting a beautiful, lonely housewife having sex with the oddly-muscular pizza delivery boy minutes after opening the door.
The raw sexiness of Amsterdam doesn’t come from the in-your-face raunchiness of the Red Light District. The allure isn’t based on the doorstep prostitution, or the grimy back-alley sex clubs. Amsterdam’s allure is purer, and less understood. It flows from its open-minded residents, and the attitudes of the people who flock here from all corners of the world, free of inhibition and embarrassment.

I’ve met couples who visited Amsterdam on holiday specifically to live out fantasies, to leave all inhibitions behind, and do things they’d be ashamed to do at home. For some reason it all seems ok here, and that’s the real magic of the city. You can be anybody you want, try anything you desire, without fear of being judged or condemned. It’s as if everyone collectively agreed that within this city there’s simply nothing to be ashamed of.

So, yes, Amsterdam seduces you, just as those that have never been here believe. But not in the ways they imagine.

There’s so much more to this magnificent city than just sex and drugs.

 

Read More Adam in OnSite!

by Adam Jones-Kelley

“Don’t worry – it’s a local delicacy.”

When I hear those words I know I’m going to suffer.

While traveling abroad it’s impolite not to try the local fare when offered, especially in a business setting, and Asian cultures in particular see a refusal as disrespectful. This is usually not a problem as I’m rather fond of Asian food. Occasionally, however, “being respectful” and “overwhelming gag reflex” meet and battle it out for supremacy. Tonight was one such night.

On the way to dinner with friends I heard the dreaded phrase. I smiled, assured my hosts I was eager to try their famous dish, and silently prayed to the Gods of Food for mercy.

Once at the restaurant we were seated at a table with an open flame cooking area in the center, much like you’d find at a fondue place. This was looking up! I like fondue! How bad could this be? I was quickly relaxing, enthusiastic and ready for a great new discovery.

As I chatted with my friends the waiter began to place food on the table. All seemed to be in order. We had a beef dish, a pork dish, some veggies, and a dark pile of fat wiggling slugs.

What the holy crap!?!

I stared aghast as my plans for a torture-free evening crumbled around me. What was I looking at, why was it moving, and why was I the only one bothered by this?

It’s rare that I worry whether my dinner could take me in a fight. Tonight I wasn’t so sure.

Tonight’s local delicacy, to my great horror, turns out to be live cicada larvae. Let me say this again; LIVE CICADA LARVAE. To eat them you take your chopsticks, hold their 3-inch thick, wiggling bodies over a flame (not to kill them – just to get ‘em warm and angry), then pop them in your mouth, squish out the juice and innards, and spit the shell on your plate.

I know it sounds disgusting.

It’s so much worse.

I wish I could equate the taste to something you could identify, but until you’ve actually had one you simply can’t imagine. Perhaps strolling down Bourbon Street the morning after Fat Tuesday and then licking the bottom of your shoe would get you close. Eating just one of these things took all I could muster. Not wanting to appear disrespectful, I had three.

It took me thirty minutes and three cans of Coke to down three live cicada larvae. I even managed to smile during the process.

That wasn’t the end of my horror. Whilst I was busily congratulating myself for successfully ingesting live bugs, the next course was brought to my table, and presented for inspection.

This time I was certain my food would wind up eating me. Staring me in the face and hissing was a very-angry 6-foot long snake. I never found out what kind.

I was encouraged to hold my still-alive meal to be as the waiter cut out its pancreas and popped it in my mouth. (My friends assured me this would help my vision. It did not.)

You might think nights like these are your biggest culinary concern in China.

Not so much.

Though China works hard to suppress news damaging to its image, do a little research and you’ll learn that the biggest health threat in Chinese eateries is “gutter oil,” which, believe it or not, is even fouler than it sounds.

Cooking oil is like gold in China, where virtually every recipe requires a wok full of it, and goes for a premium. In recent years an entire industry trafficking in filthy used and sometimes fatal oil has emerged. Black market villains dredge up used oil from gutters and sewers around restaurants, selling the putrid but still useable product back to restaurants, who happily buy it dirt-cheap (pun intended here.)

The Wall Street Journal reported that police broke up a criminal network operating in 14 Chinese provinces last month, arresting 32 people and seizing 100 tons of gutter oil. Li Xiang, a prominent Chinese journalist known as “The Gutter Oil Reporter,” was stabbed to death just after the crackdown in what police term “mysterious” circumstances.

The 100 tons seized by authorities didn’t even put a dent in the industry.

It’s estimated that two million tons of thepotentially toxic mix are consumed by unwitting Chinese diners annually, and gutter oil probably accounts for at least one-tenth of all cooking oil used by restaurants. (The actual figure is presumed to be much higher, but isn’t actually known. Chinese officials admit privately that detecting gutter oil can be tricky.)

I was so disgusted I determined to eat only raw food the rest of the trip.

So, unsurprisingly, my colleagues took me out for a special treat that night: Chinese “hot pot,” a tradition where food is actually cooked in a pot of bubbling oil right at your table. It’s the Chinese answer to fondue, and I was utterly convinced that the sludge had been scraped off the streets and brought directly to my table.

My friends thought I was turning green over the blood tofu (literally squares of congealed blood) or the ox intestines. In truth I was just trying to hide my panic over consuming anything fried in their country. But I sucked it up – literally and figuratively — and while Soo fought down vomit I chucked back mouthful after mouthful of tasty but terrifying tidbits, which I assumed would presently kill me.

I survived, but I’m planning to get some shots as soon as I’m home. I don’t even care what shots. I just want my doctor to stick needles in me and tell me everything will be ok.

I may also need a hug.

This is really a tragedy. I’m a big fan of Chinese food, both the authentic stuff and what passes for it in America. But now it’s going to be difficult to eat the real stuff with gusto. The Chinese may well be the most industrious people on earth, but sometimes their very industriousness, when untempered by morality or decency, can be disastrous. The culture has been thus for a millennium, and is unlikely to change anytime soon, so best be careful what you eat.

I wish I could tell you that I was able to distract myself by going to see the Christmas lights around the magnificent city of Shanghai. But the Chinese don’t celebrate Christmas, not even a little. The Koreans, Thai and Japanese celebrate to varying degrees, most centering around commerce and catering to Western tourists, but not so China.

They’re gearing up for the New Year’s celebration – theirs, not the one most of the world celebrates with champagne and fireworks at midnight on December 31. 

The New Year, or Spring Festival, is the most important holiday on the Chinese calendar, and the dates for it change each year (it started in February this year, and next year, the Year of the Dragon, begins January 23.)

Celebrations in mainland China last a week, during which friends and family travel great distances to be together, exchange gifts and hang jillions of brightly lit paper lanterns. It’s totally alien to our holiday celebrations, yet somehow familiar. And ever so much more fun than eating bugs and snakes.