: Mary E. Klug
: Butterfly Dreams Delving into China, Cross-Cultural Friendships, and the Environment
: Green Fire Press
: 9798989945290
: Butterfly Dreams
: 1
: CHF 10.50
:
: Biographien, Autobiographien
: English
: 329
: kein Kopierschutz
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
'Get to China before it changes too much,' Mary was advised. It was 1982, and China was beginning to transform itself after years of isolation. When Mary, a seasoned Delta flight attendant, arrived in Hangzhou a year later, her life also began a major transformation. China became her passion-at times her nemesis and ultimately her teacher-as she returned year after year, decade after decade. Butterfly Dreams tells the story of how, through years of friendship and exploration, Mary came to discover her life's purpose: working with others, in China and the United States, to create a sustainable and thriving Earth for all.

For 36 years, Mary Klug was a flight attendant for Delta Air Lines. She has been teaching English as a Second Language for several decades, both professionally and as a volunteer. Mary is presently the Vice President of the New England chapter of the US-China Peoples Friendship Association, and an active member of the Pachamama Alliance. She volunteers for the North Shore Node of the environmental group 350MASS. Mary lives with her cat, Emma, in Marblehead, Massachusetts. She can be reached at meklug22@hotmail.com or through her blog: ecojourneyinchina.blog.

Chapter One

Hangzhou, China, 1983

“Just get to China before it changes too much,” my flight attendant colleague had advised a year earlier, transforming the trajectory of my life in ways I could not have imagined.

I pushed the key into the lock, turned it, and shoved the door open, entering my first abode in Hangzhou. The dimly lit corridor barely revealed a dark cavernous high-ceiling room. As instructed, I slipped the wooden part holding the key into the wall slot magically activating the room’s electricity.Western hotels should save electricity like this, I thought as I flipped on the overhead switch, exposing two single beds with red-flowered comforters providing a bit of brightness in the otherwise unadorned room. A thermos and teacups sat on a round table near a huge wooden desk in front of a window, its grey curtains hiding the outside world. An ancient armoire almost reached the ceiling.

I crossed the concrete floor to a huge bathroom with a tub and shower head (though no shower curtain), a Western-style toilet, a sink with a chipped glass shelf, and an equally chipped mirror above. On the shelf sat a comb with a few black hairs, a thick tumbler, and a tiny piece of soap.

Our tour group had been assigned to this guesthouse, situated in a government compound outside Hangzhou proper. China was experiencing a hotel room shortage as she opened her doors wider and wider to the outside world, resulting in groups being assigned to unexpected places—in our case, a guesthouse intended for Chinese officials.

Knock, knock, knock. I opened the door. There was a man with my large suitcase.

“Xie xie (thank you),” I said, nodding to indicate that it was mine. My instinct to give him some coins in thanks was trumped by the warning in my guidebook: don’t tip. A smile was my thanks as I closed the door.

Our first day had been a full one, flying from Hong Kong to Hangzhou, gawking out our huge bus’s windows at roads filled with bikes but few cars, and a lovely welcome at a tea house. I wanted a quick shower before climbing into bed. However, my bathroom ritual when traveling needed to be completed before I could sleep. I dug through my bag, found the Lysol bottle and flip flops. As an 18-year flight attendant veteran, a world traveler, and an obsessive-compulsive to boot, I had packed the tools necessary to make my stay acceptable no matter where I traveled. I dropped the plastic shoes next to the tub, picked up the small roll of rough brown toilet paper, tore off a bit, and folded it into a nice, neat square. I put a teaspoon’s worth of antiseptic and some water on the paper and ran the mixture around the toilet seat, once, twice, three times, making sure I hit every spot. As I turned to sanitize the wash basin and tub, I questioned myself.Do I need to clean them? What was a “real” concern, what wasn’t?

Questioning myself—often leading to intense anxiety—resulted from an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) that had plagued me since childhood. Although I had taught myself techniques to combat an obsession, I would know when I was unsuccessful by a flush flowing through me, a warning of the dreaded anxiety to come, demanding an action—in this case, it would insist that I clean the toilet seat again and again and again. Obeying and carrying out the compulsion eventually led to a kind of relief, an exhausting cycle I was too familiar with.

I had