Sandra Seeden was lying on her back again and the crowd was going crazy. Straight overhead she saw the Chinese flag hanging from the rafters was clearly. She pivoted her head slightly to see the American flag that she knew was hanging opposite, but it was blocked by the referee’s perfectly round pot belly.

Then, for the twentieth time this evening, she made her way back to her feet, shook her head, and tried to locate her assailant. Yes there she was—a boyish-looking Chinese girl adorned nattily in red headgear, matching boxing gloves, and the hint of a smile. Sandra wasn’t in pain; she was just irritated at getting knocked down so many times and the crowd’s never ending glee over it.

She didn’t understand that.
The waiting had been the worst part, and that’s how she knew this wasn’t some bad dream. Dreams, even very bad ones, move much more swiftly than this.

She had arrived at the arena a good two-and-half hours ago. She saw all the television cameras outside. She even saw a few of the other American kick boxers.

They had looked through her. They were serious male kick boxers. Obviously they didn’t care for her presence.

She didn’t mind. Kick boxers were at the bottom of her list entitled “Eligible Intelligent Men.” For those were the only men for her.

So she had waited and waited. After she gotten bored she had wandered out of her dressing room to watch the pre-match festivities from the tunnel. And for a while she had wondered if there would be any kick boxing at all this evening.

Maybe she had misunderstood.
Every five minutes the ropes in the ring were pulled apart so the next petite singer dressed in shiny, ruffled polyester could climb in and pay homage to Celine Dion. It went on and on and on, interspersed only by children dressed in blue silk dancing with swords pretending they were stabbing each other.

I bet those children are encouraged to run with knives, she had thought. Later the children had laid down their swords and were pretending to kick box each other. The crowd had cheered when one of them had messed up and fallen without being kicked.

Cheers of encouragement? She didn’t know.
Finally some official looking people crawled in between the ropes and begin to make speeches.

She had seen this sign before. She knew she would be fighting within the next hour. The first official looking man’s mic didn’t work.

But he acted like he didn’t notice and droned on anyway. This “speech” was then supplied to the audience, in English, by a shy-acting, skinny, young, Chinese man. He switched the microphone on before he began.

Haltingly spoken English had washed over the building. She had gone back to her dressing room then.
The blaring sound of Nelly was her cue to enter the ring.

As she made her way to into the ring, she decided that she hated Nelly and the entire town of St. Louis. She hoped that something bad would happen to St.

Louis because of Nelly. But then she supposed something bad happening to St. Louis would be redundant.

The crowd had clapped politely for her. That is what this was. A Chinese/American kick boxing friendly.

The only kicker was that international kick boxing ruled would not be observed. This was China, and they would be fighting under Chinese kick fighting rules. In Chinese kick fighting grabbing another fighters legs is completely legal.

Actually, rather than just being legal it is the main way to score points. Other kick boxers not accustomed to these rules don’t fare so well. Imagine if biting ears would get you ahead on the scorecard under international boxing rules.

Mike Tyson would have enough money to act really insane—Howard Hugh’s insane. In this system boxers without the appetite for soft cartilage would be penalized. So foreign kick boxers came to China, refused to fight the Chinese style, then went home having forfeited their belts.

She didn’t really know about any of these kickboxing rules first hand. She had heard the other American fighters complaining about it in the hallway. She really didn’t know anything about kickboxing.

She was actually just an ESL teacher. Two days ago she had told the foreign liaison at her middle school that she would help out at an “important cultural exchange celebration”. Today she was being thrown on the mat repeatedly in this nationally televised event.

Next time, she thought, I won’t sign my teaching contract until I see the English translation.
This summer I plan on returning to China. I have been struggling with that decision off and on for a while.

I have already done China, so I wondered if maybe I should go live another country and explore and write about it.
Of course, the appealing thing about living in China is that it is a vast, unknowable, constantly changing country. Going back and doing China again would be like going to a different country.

I am sure of that. But where should I go?
I want to work only part time, but I would work longer if necessary.

I think if I only work two to three days a week, I ll have enough time to write and learn the language better. I have experience teaching ESL, so that option is always there.
Hainan is a possibility.

I have been alerted to some opportunites there, but I have already lived in Haikou before. I wonder if maybe I should experience another situation. Hangzhou and Shanghai are also interesting options.

Many of my best friends living in China live in those two places. I have already lived in Hangzhou. Shanghai is a big convenient city.

Neither town would make me get out of my comfort zone that much.
 So I have been thinking of going somewhere new. But where?

I want a town that is no more than three million people and no less than 100,000 people. I want a place that has some natural beauty nearby. I like the outdoors and living somewhere beautiful does lift my spirits on those invariable days of loneliness and confusion.

I need some help. I need some advice. If you are a China expat or a Chinese and you live in a cool place.

Tell me about it. Could your town use another laowai?
I have money enough saved up to live in China for a couple of years without working.

I don t mind working some though. If I don t hear anything exciting, I may resort to more creative decision making a dart and a map of China. This fall I took off a couple of months from work to recharge my batteries.

Not working affords me the opportunity to partake in my true passions. These passions are (in not certain order), waking up at 10:00 in the morning and lying in bed till 1:30, taking leisurely road trips to visit my friends and family, sitting in coffee houses in downtown Asheville trying to look subversive, eating burritos while still exuding subversiveness (yes, I am passionate about burritos), and traveling.
My friend, Brian, and I decided we should go to Argentina.

My reasoning was if South America is what we wanted, and it was, we should go all the way to South America, so we did.
After a 12 hour overnight flight to Buenos Aires, we arrived the next morning somewhat dazed and cramped. We picked up our bags from baggage claim and were immediately approached by a taxi driver for the ride into the city.

Now, I have traveled a bit, so I know that when you arrive at any airport, bus station, or train station in the world you wait in the taxi line with everybody else. You don t try to negotiate your own ride with somebody who may or may not have your best interests in mind. It doesn t matter if they speak English or promise you immediate service.

Get the taxi that is legitimate enough to wait in the taxi line. If a taxi driver has to subvert the line, then maybe he is a con artist.
 But I was tired.

Brian was tired. We were tired, dazed and hungry, so we relented. We got into the taxi, and off we went on the thirty minute ride into Buenos Aires.

We had not smoked in twelve hours, so the driver told us to light up. Smoking in his taxi was allowed. While I fumbled for my cigs, Brian asked him why the meter wasn t turned on, and the driver played dumb.

Brian and I gave each that knowing look.
 I lit up, and we looked out the window. After a few minutes of silence, I turned I told Brian that we were probably going to have to pay a little more than normal fair.

As we approached the dirty outskirts of Buenos Aires, I begin to smell something burning. I thought it was brakes or the normal smell of a city of twelve million people. I wasn t overly concerned about the smell until smoke began to fill up the inside off our taxi which was now moving slowly in the early morning traffic.

 Our driver quickly pulled off to the shoulder to investigate. He opened the trunk and smoke came billowing out. Somehow, in my haste to get that sweet, sweet nicotine into my body I had been careless with my ashing.

The strong odor of burning seat foam confirmed my fears: I had been in beautiful, lovely Argentina for less than fifteen minutes, and I had caught a taxi on fire.
 The driver opened up the back door and stuck his hand into the gap between the seat and the door frame. He screamed and pulled his hand out.

The burnt foam, gooey and black, now was stuck to his hand. My Spanish, by no means fluent, was good enough for me to understand that this caused him pain and that he was unpleased by these event. The driver was brave enough about it all though.

He used an old rag from the trunk to try to stop the foam from burning. After a minute or two he was satisfied. He got back in the taxi, clutching his now burned hand, and we got back on the road.

I apologized profusely, even though I may or may not (this part gets foggy) have laughed loudly at the situation before offering sincerest regrets.
Soon we were in Buenos Aires, and the taxi was filling up with smoke again. As we sat at a red light, smoke wafting from around us like a Cheech and Chong movie, the driver decided to take more decisive action.

Plus Brian and I had also said we would rather get out there and find a  taxi that wasn t on fire (even if said fire was my doing).
Our taxi driver said no. He had agreed to get us to our hotel, and he would even if we were crisp and smokey.

Spotting a beggar across the street drinking a orange Fanta, he jumped out and ran quickly across traffic, threw some money at the beggar, and returned to douse the back seat with the tasty yet flame retardant orange liquid. We heard the sizzle that a burning taxi seat makes when tasty yet flame retardant orange liquid is thrown on it.
 We did not have to stop, drop and roll.

I was grateful and gave our taxi driver a high five on the hand with the third degree burns. Soon, we were at our hotel.
 I asked what the damage was.

The taxi driver rather than telling me, reconnected the meter. The total, 280 pesos, flashed on the meter. The driver now repeated the sum in Spanish and English.

That is 90 US dollars. He also insisted I pay in dollars, which I knew was rubbish. But I paid it with a minimal degree of complaining.

I knew it was way too much. Later we found that a taxi ride from or to the airport should only be about 60 pesos.
 Briefly, I had that familiar angry feeling I get when somebody has preyed on me and sought to exploit me.

He had been planning on charging that fare from the beginning. He had his meter stopped at that price. But I wasn t as angry as I would have been had I not lit his taxi and boiled his hand.

Besides, who knows how much orange Fanta costs in Argentina? Upon realizing that I (despite not tasting any of the Fanta) had actually come out ahead in our entire exchange, I started to feel pretty optimistic about the time ahead in Argentina. I don t know if Brian was as optimistic about traveling with me.

Yesterday, according to the Gregorian calendar, marked my thirty-second year on the earth. To mark this occasion, I went online and bought a fedora. Below is a picture of the fedora 
The fedora is a soft that is creased lengthwise down the crown and pinched in the front on both sides.

It was invented in the mid- . Any hat that resembles the soft felt version is also usually called a fedora, including and ones. Similar hats with a C-crown (with an indentation for the head in the top of the crown) are occasionally called fedoras.

It is usually worn by men, but ladies versions can also be found.
The popularity of the fedora has resulted in a large variety of styles being available. Fedoras can be found in nearly any color imaginable, but black, grey, and tan/brown are the most popular and universal.

In a fedora is also called a . They typically have a shorter, stingy brim and the back of the brim is distinctively more sharply upturned as a result. It was invented in .

Another variant is the bogart, being identical to the fedora but having a larger 2 wide brim.
The word comes from the title of a 1882 play by , , the heroine of which, Princess Fedora Romazova, wore this or a similar style of hat.
In the fedoras were considered an essential part of the suit and of business and formal attire.

Most men did not go outside without wearing one. However, like the , the fedora fell out of usage and popularity during the late and early . Today, fedoras are rarely worn as part of normal business attire, though they have staged something of a comeback as of the .

Since the early part of the century, many and Jews have worn black fedoras and continue to this day.
Even though I am not officially Hasidic, I will still feel comfortable wearing this hat. I wish I was wearing it now, but I m on a boat that has a strict policy against fedoras due to something that happened on Carmen Sandiego a long time ago.

Most men want a fedora but they are never sure when it s the right time to make the purchase. It s when you turn thirty-two-years-old.
Why did the fedora fall out of fashion in the late sixties and early seventies?

I wasn t there, so I can only guess that people started growing their hair longer. Fedoras mash the hair. Below is a list of people who associate themselves with the fedora.

, the infamous Washington lobbyist, wore a fedora to the federal courthouse where he pled guilty.

and film director can often be seen wearing a fedora on set.

It is common today that many and Jews wear black fedoras.

, the rap crew, wore black fedoras.

, the former mayor of , , is known to be quite fond of wearing a fedora.

, performer of the mid twentieth century and member of the , was often depicted wearing a fedora.

, legendary American songwriter, musician, and poet has been wearing a fedora when performing live in the new century.

wears a fedora on the cover his album.

dons the hat as one of his trademarks.

, leader of the made this hat especially popular among his followers.

, the flamboyant soccer manager from the 1970 s, was a famous fedora wearer.

of the wore a fedora made of a fabric woven in a check pattern.

On night, 1996, was noticed for wearing an all-white suit with matching fedora

, the trombonist from s house band, , nearly always dons a white fedora. This hat sometimes makes its way into Conan s comedy routine.

Members of the punk bank are often seen wearing a fedora.

Professor ; scientist,inventor and sculptor/artist is never seen in public without his fedora, even while performing anatomical dissections.

, the distinct singer-songwriter, is often photographed wearing a fedora.

; the rocker-rapper from Detroit is often seen wearing various colored fedoras.

Fedora wearers, from a brief perusal of that list are usually singers or journalist/writers or dead. Most of those people, except the ones that are dead on that list are also starved for attention. I am going to wear a fedora because it s the right time in my life.

It s the right thing to do. I do hope to bring the fedora back in fashion, but that is because I want other men to be made whole.
Any of you that didn t personally E-mail me and wish me happy birthday yesterday are not my friends anymore.