On a fine sunny Sunday, I ventured down to Cuihu Park, Kunming's answer to New York's Central Park or London's Hyde Park and a little of Marrakech's Djemaa dl-Fna thrown in (although at night, my own neighborhood looks like a tiny nighttime Djemaa el-Fna, can't beat it). Cuihu's got to be one of the best parks in the world. The name means Green Lake and it dates back to the Ming Dynasty. It's right in downtown Kunming, a breath of fresh air amid the drab concrete buildings and honking cars. It's got Hanzhou-style arched bridges crisscrossing four small willow-lined lakes, brightly colored pavilions, vendors selling food, and traditional Chinese musicians. Beautiful Siberian seagulls spend the winter here. Did I mention it's free? On a sunny Sunday, this scene is nothing short of glorious.

I was asked to pose for four or five photos with Chinese strangers, but really when are the Chinese strangers? I saw an old minority woman in traditional clothes and bound feet. She hobbled along. I saw a beautiful young Bai woman in traditional dress out for a stroll with her parents. I heard some amazing music and listened for an hour or so. During this time, I read some Jack Kerouac: "Food is always better eaten in doleful little pinchfuls off the ends of chopsticks, no gobbling, the reason why Darwin's law of survival applies best to China: if you don't know how to handle a chopstick and stick it in that family pot with the best of 'em, you'll starve. I ended up flubbing it all up my forefinger anyhow." I can't remember the last time I used a fork or knife.

Right now is dry season in Kunming, so the sun is bright and the sky is majestic. Just about every day. The mornings and evenings are a little chilly, jacket weather, but by the afternoon the weather's figured itself out enough to be perfect. Some leaves have turned colors, but other flowers are blooming and the grass is green. I stepped inside a music shop and tried playing the erhu, a Chinese two-stringed violin. Also I dabbled with the yueqi, the "moon guitar." They had a few more instruments, but I had an intense cold and a runny nose, so it was time to stop sniffling and head home. I stumbled through the flower and bird market in Kunming Old Town (or what's left of it, unfortunately), very fascinating. I peeked in a Chinese antique shop--these are always the best. Old coins, stacks and stacks of Little Red Books (required reading during the Cultural Revolution), Mao buttons, the obligatory Japanese samurai swords leftover from the occupation.

I have been here three months now. I have had three colds. Each cold was treated quite effectively with Chinese medicine and a trip to the mountains and fresh air. Last weekend I had a cold and went up to Xi Shan/The Western Hills with one of my classes. "Hills" is an understatement. We left early Saturday morning and found a "bread bus," a 17-seater that would drive us from the bus station up, up, up into the hills. It started out pleasant: students taking turns singing folk songs, including a new one about the railway to Tibet. Soon it became apparent that this driver was extremely aggressive, his right hand permanently pressing the horn, cigarette dangling from his mouth, occasionally driving the bus into the bicycle lanes when traffic was too congested and ignoring red lights. He did not relent when we reached the winding roads of Xi Shan. We zigzagged up into the mountains, whizzing past 500 year-old Buddhist and Taoist temples, dodging dogs and pedestrians, horses, cars. Soon some students became carsick. By the time we reached the village at the top, each side of the bus had a girl hanging out the window, vomiting, gasping for fresh air and escape from nausea. The driver did not relent with his mad dash to the top or blaring that horn.

We stayed at a hotel in the mountains that served us a home-cooked meal in the courtyard. Some students elected to play mahjong or sing karaoke, but it was too nice to be inside. A few of us hiked up through the karst topography of Little Stone Forest. It is obligatory to shout a "Hoo!!!" at any significant peak. Others will respond. I think the Chinese, being mountain people through-and-through, do it best. Maybe this is worldwide. I don't know. I'm from Iowa, where the highest point is Hawkeye Point, on the Sterler Farm in Osceola County, a pitiful 1670 feet above sea level. As I write this, from the ground floor of my apartment building, I am already 6,265 feet up, 1000 feet higher than Denver. Lhasa, that city down in the valleys of Tibet, is twice as high as here. And that ain't nothing. We peered down hundreds of feet off sheer cliffs to the massive and toxic Lake Dian (an unnatural chemical green from all the surrounding factories). In the middle of the rocks, wherever possible, were boards set up vertically, holding about 36 brightly colored balloons. For 2 yuan, you could shoot a BB gun and try to pop them. These were all over, along with people selling plastic bird-shaped whistles that gave a tweet tweet. Way up in the mountains! Where did they come from? We talked with some Kunming locals way up there, whose dialect was difficult even for the students from neighboring provinces. One man in a worn suit jacket told me, "Be careful up here. Your life is valuable but mine is worthless." What do you say to that? Even if you could speak Kunming-hua?

After returning to the hotel, I had a long nap. I got my own room, and the door opened out into a view that stretched into eternity sunshine Shangri-La. We had a home-cooked supper, this time inside, and persuaded the hotel owners to get a bonfire going in their courtyard. So they took a big old wok, filled it with wood, and we had a warm fire going in no time. There was some fire dancing, a game of "hot potato," but instead of a potato, it was played with a chopstick. And we played some truth-or-dare. This was nothing like American truth-or-dare. I think the most risqué moment was when a male student had to carry a female student around the circle on his back. In front of everyone! Or when a girl had to call her boyfriend in Inner Mongolia and tell him that she loved him. In front of everyone! There is an innocence and freshness here that we have somehow lost in America.

The next day, we hiked up another hill, this time straight up, through a tree (not stone) forest, to a summit that gave us an inspiring view of all of the whiteness of Kunming City and beyond. At top was a 150 year-old Buddhist pavilion and a very modern military radar station, done in traditional Chinese style, arched roofs and all. After returning for lunch, it was soon time to go back to Kunming. I was exhausted and slept on the bus.

One student woke me up. "Koby wants to meet us at Baita Road." "Huh? Why?" "I don't know." So we got off at Baita Road. Sure enough, Koby was there in suit and tie along with a friend. They quickly escorted us to a fancy karaoke hall, to a private room filled with about 10 familiar faces. They insisted that I sing some English hit songs. Let me warn you about Western pop music in China: it's bad. Everyone loves Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On," (and all of Titanic for that matter) which they insisted I sing. Also, they wanted to hear me sing some Michael Jackson (who is still huge here, along with Michael Bolton and Kenny G and the Backstreet Boys, seriously). One time, a friend, a really cool and trendy guy, broke out his top-of-the-line MP3 cellphone and played "Right Here Waiting" by Richard Marx.... The cheesier the better. "Sleepless in Seattle" is by far one of the most popular movies in China. So please, America, please Europe, please whoever, send some better Western pop culture over here to China, at least for my sake.

After karaoke, we went out to eat, had some delicious lotus root (a delicacy I haven't seen in the States), eggplant, tofu, and a big pot of sour fish soup. About ten people came back to my place for a night of singing and playing guitar and drinking beer and by then I was really exhausted.

Thanksgiving was last week. Many students wished me a happy Thanksgiving, but it didn't really feel like Thanksgiving. First of all, I had to work. Second of all, Lester and I went for supper at a Xinjiang restaurant and ate naan bread and watched Uighur traditional music videos. The only pilgrims around were those on the road to Mecca.

This week I've gotten a couple of calls out of the blue from parents in the neighborhood who want me to teach their kids English. The first group was four 12-year-olds, very well behaved, two of them who spoke better English than some of my grad students. I showed them Google Earth on my computer, zoomed in on my school where I teach. I zoomed in on my Kunming apartment, then I whisked them around the world to show my father's house, zoomed out to show my tiny hometown, then to Oregon to show my girlfriend's apartment, and back to China to show the Forbidden City of Beijing. I love Google Earth. It was fun.

Tonight, however, was different. I had five 5-year-olds show up, and two parents to supervise. It was madness from when I opened the door. I tried to teach them some vocabulary, but when I could get two or three of them to focus, the other ones would start digging through my apartment which was not kidproofed to begin with. They broke two things, shouted, and fought over markers. I finally got them to focus and draw pictures of Yuka and me (Yuka, you are blond and have green skin). They liked to draw pictures of butts (Pigu! Pigu!).