03/31/03’s illustrious band:

White Rice

Brought to you by the world’s whitest Asian culture festival.

Amy 2.0 and I are back from our trip to Des Moines to visit Skeeter. It was a great trip; a good time was had by all. Our transplanted comrade seems to be flourishing in his new soil. We were treated to tours of his palatial new house, which is fabulous except for the bridal boutique-style wallpaper in the hallway and the upstairs landing. The pink window swags will have to go, too. But the rooms are sunny, and the yard is just itching to be landscaped by an expert.

Then there’s Skeeter’s new office in downtown Des Moines. They have an employee cafeteria AND a gym right there in the building. What, me jealous? It looks like a pretty decent place to work, if you like big windows and cheerful colors. We spent some time Saturday afternoon picking out plants for Skeeter’s new desk.

Also on Saturday, we visited the local botanical center. It was a nice diversion on a windy, chilly day. For the better part of an hour, as we walked around the eco-dome, I pointed at bright blossoms and asked my horticulturist friend, “What is that? Will that grow in my yard?” Time after time, the answer was no. Knowing my own ignorance of plants, I was not discouraged. I just kept asking, figuring I’d hit the jackpot eventually.

Finally Skeeter informed me, very gently, that we were walking through a tropical environment filled with tropical plants, NONE of which were suitable for my Minnesota yard. So I really didn’t need to inquire about each of them, because the answer would always be the same. D’oh!

The botanical center was hosting a Japan America festival in its educational wing, so we stopped to check that out, too. It was the whitest Asian event I’ve ever seen. The only person I saw wearing a full kimono was a tall, thin young woman with milky skin and bright red hair. The staff at the merchandise table were all Caucasian. The guy teaching flower arranging was Caucasian. The guy teaching Japanese vocabulary words was Caucasian. The people serving sushi -- fishless sushi, since acquiring and safely handling sushi-grade raw fish in landlocked Des Moines was beyond the festival’s means -- were Caucasian. Only the lady painting people’s names in calligraphy characters and the gentleman demonstrating origami appeared to be Japanese. They wore kimono-like robes over jeans and T-shirts. I asked the origami man where he was from. The answer? Minneapolis.

And you know what? It didn’t matter. He folded a mean paper crane.

Saturday evening, I broke away from Skeeter and Amy to attend a birthday dinner for Master Choi, a big-deal kung fu master who was in town giving a seminar. I joined one of my own teachers, who was also attending. Since this was a special dinner for an honored guest, we were looking forward to some really fine Chinese food. But it turned out to be very Americanized Chinese food: lots of white rice and fried meats with sauces. My plate boasted deep-fried chicken chunks with sesame sauce, deep-fried chicken with “spicy” Peking sauce (about as hot as a Dorito) and deep-fried chicken with no sauce at all.

And you know what? It didn’t matter. I enjoyed conversation with my teacher and the other people at our table, and I got Master Choi’s autograph on a photo.

That’s really all I did for the entire trip: enjoyed food and conversation, and more food and conversation. It was refreshing to just hang out and run errands rather than having to hustle from place to place, from chore to chore. For dessert at the Chinese restaurant, I got a fortune cookie that said, “A good friend is the strongest defense.” Leave it to a pastry to sum up a whole weekend.

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