For whom the bell tolls

At least the Gazette is (somewhat) paying attention to this greedy (Only in) Amherst residency scam. Someone emailed me the Jpg of this morning’s article so I could post it, but the Internet connection here is now slower than customer service at a Bank of China.

But in reading the article directly at Gazettenet I was reminded that today’s 3:00 PM hearing at Town Hall is kind of like a Grand Jury indictment proceeding, in that they do not definitively decide the issue today, they simply weigh the evidence to see if there is “sufficient grounds for an investigation”—as in proceeding on to a trial.

So under those laissez-faire conditions, there is no way in Hell they can decide that Hubley/Awad are “beyond a shadow of a doubt” full-time Amherst residents with all the rights and privileges to vote and/or hold local office. Remember, OJ beat the criminal rap but lost the civil case because it only required a "preponderance of the evidence."

I will not be flying 17 hours to attend the hearing so here’s the only question I would ask each of them if they continue to insist--even under oath--that Amherst is their “primary residence.”

To Mr. Hubley: You signed a ‘Declaration of Homestead” on April 10 legally declaring 4 Jewett Lane South Hadley your “Primary residence”, were you lying then or are you lying now?

To Ms. Awad: You signed an FDIC approved mortgage on April 10 (under pains and penalties of perjury) from Florence Savings Bank with a ‘Residency Requirement’ for a home at 4 Jewett Lane South Hadley within 60 days; yet you now claim Amherst is your primary residency. Are you lying now or were you lying then?

Either way, mortgage fraud or voter residency fraud notwithstanding, it's perjury and perjury is a federal offense. And the only good thing about Amherst's system of town government is they have a bylaw banning anyone who has a Federal rap sheet.

Even In China

Yeah, and this Super Wal Mart was located directly across the street from the giant Mao statue in the Guiyang center, directly in line with his stare. Maybe they should add a few tears.

To the top of the mountain.

Qian Ling Park reminds me of New York City’s Central Park: an oasis of green among a sea of concrete, although in this case it just outside the capital city and a lot harder to reach via a mile hike with a 500 foot vertical gain.
At the top of the mountain lies the main attraction: the oldest Buddhist temple in the provice dating back 500 years. And it is still active as the sprawling facilities with shrines. Prayer centers and enormous Buddha statues still houses 42 monks, their sleeping quarters, and a vegetarian restaurant.

Our guide (who is a Buddhist) said she recently met the 92-year-old head monk and he is the picture of health.

The base of the mountain, with a peaceful stream, is where the “park” amenities cluster with amusement rides, games, fast food, and ubiquitous trinkets for sale. The Olympic Logo (which reminds me of Teletubbies) in flowers attracted native tourists as a backdrop for photos.
The weather was an almost perfect 72 degrees and only slightly muggy but it was not very long after starting the climb up 12” rock steps cut in the mountain, hugging Jada to my chest, that I was sweating profusely.

About 10 minutes into the climb we spotted our first wild monkey. Our guide warned us they could get aggressive. On her last tour a five year old got too close and the monkey slapped him in the face.
Naturally with hundreds of people making the trek daily the monkeys are no longer afraid of humans and since they get plenty of food some of them are looking a tad overweight. But they are government protected so they thrive.

Because of the steep grade the rock staircase would curve as it snaked its way to the top.

The monkey was sitting on top of the rock guardrail and we stopped to take a picture. Folks coming down the trail stopped to let us get the shot resulting in a slight traffic jam. I noticed the other tourists were far more interested in our multi-racial family than the monkey.

The top of the mountain looked nothing like the tourist attraction clustered down below. It is an active monastery and many of the folks who made the climb performed prayers, the gong of ancient ritual bells frequently pierced the air and the smell of incense was everywhere.

The huge Buddha statues (including the bright gold “laughing Buddha”) were off limits to photographers and robed monks in sandals sat in the entryway to all the buildings.
We descended via a paved road on the other side of the mountain (naturally many tourists prefer to drive to the top rather than hike). About half way down at a sharp corner we could hear the loud whine of a motorcycle so we stepped completely off the road.

Two kids, one about 18 and his passenger maybe 12, were showing off by going to fast and pointing to us. He cut the corner to sharply and went down with a loud crash, sliding sideways down the road for perhaps twenty yards.

They were both stunned into silence. Our interpreter ran over and pulled up the younger one, wiping his bloody arm with a tissue who looked like he was in shock. He had “road rash” on his right arm (exposed because he was only wearing a t shirt) and probably his right hip/leg as well.

The older kid looked like he suffered little damage. The bikes front cover blew off but it managed to restart. Our guide told them to be careful, don’t show off and be respectful.

They restarted the bike and tore off. Our guide shook her head. About five minutes later we came across them on the side of the road as the bike had died.

Almost down we spotted metal tracks looping below. Kira recognized them from Disney World and yelled “roller coaster”. Donna and Kira took a ride ($2.25 each) while I sat with Jada and our guide.
The owners of the ride—a husband and wife about my age—came over and sat next to us at the picnic table. The women gave me a thumbs up and told the interpreter we were “good people” for adopting Kira and Jada.

The husband, who looked Mongolian, said he was ashamed his people would abandon these little girls (as he we speaking I noticed our guide/interpreter wince slightly). I really didn’t know what to say. I could tell he was not patronizing me and genuinely felt bad.

We shook hands, as my other one hugged Jada close.

What you looking at

When in Rome (or China)

Tuesday (7:30 am)

The entire family and our interpreter took a taxi to a nondescript government office on the sixth floor of a building in city center to finalize the adoption paperwork.



The 40 by 20 room room was hot, with a row large windows facing out into the street along the left wall. A large conference table dominated the room and official looking plaques and flags adorned the walls, so it resembled a VFW or American Legion Hall--only all the adornments were red.


The male director of the orphanage and a female teacher (both in their early 30’s) were already there and a Provincial Government official (a pregnant woman in her late 30’s) showed up a few moments late. We signed a few documents and then pressed our thumbs in red ink and placed the thumbprint directly over our signature.

After the paperwork was done we waited a few minutes for another, higher ranked, government official (a professionally dressed women in her late 40’s) to look over all the paperwork and declare it okay. Thankfully she did just that.

Since we needed cash our interpreter took us to a branch of the state owned ‘Bank of China”. We simply wanted to exchange about $100 in cash, $150 in traveler’s checks and take $250 out of our bank via debit card.

The branch had 9 available lines staffed by young workers in smart red (with a little white) uniforms sitting behind bulletproof glass. After about 20 minutes dealing with one teller Donna managed to exchange the American money, but that was it. The teller seemed to suggest we had no money in our savings account for the debit.

Donna then went outside to the bank's ATM and instantly did the withdraw/exchange herself. I went to another line and spent a few minutes filling out a form to cash the travelers checks. She then handed me another stamped form and said go to Line Seven.

There I waited another ten minutes for the single person in front of me to complete a transaction. In the middle of this a man came up to the next window and tried to get service. They sent him away (probably to another line on the other side of the office) and he started shouting (probably because he had just waited in that line).

I worried the police or military would take him away but after the shouting match with two separate bank employees lasting a couple minutes ceased, he sat down and they serviced him.

The young man counting out my money never even looked up. After 45 minutes we finally exited the building with our Chines money. The American banking system has nothing to fear.


EYE see you



Ancient Garden


Built overlooking the river Nanming (means South Bright) by order of the Emperor, the wooden building lasted longer than he did (500 years and counting). The disgruntled workers crafted the dragons on the roof to be looking backwards, a sign of bad luck. Proved that way for the last emperor of Ming Dynasty (who had a very brief reign).

Selling is the same all over the world

Monday (dawn)

The immediate area around the city center are honeycombed with funky side streets and alleyways that look unchanged for generations.

Although you have to pay attention to the cars making their way along the narrow single lane or motorcycles and scooters competing with them.

Call it a Farmers Market melded with a giant flea market as all sorts of fresh fruits, vegetables, meats (cooked and still running around) are available all along the way.

Some of the buildings house mini open markets as well, so this is all probably year round activity.
As the only Americans in sight we stand out. As Americans with two Chinese daughters in a nation that enforces a One Child Policy we stand out all the more.

A few folks even came up and took photos on their cell phones (that, like cigarette smoking, are ubiquitous).

No, I did not consider that stalking.

Greetings from the (other) People's Republic

Sunday morning (Asian time)

Arrived in Beijing after a 13-hour flight from New Jersey. The main terminal is the largest I have ever seen and looks brand new. The marble floors, which span the square footage of a few football fields, look like you could eat off them or use them for a mirror to shave.

Our layover was three hours and we thought we would be hanging out with time to spare but the connecting flight run by China Air took forever to coordinate and we just barely made the packed flight.

We were also spread out in the plane but two passengers’ kindly switched seats so we could sit together. The flight to Guiyang, capital of the Guizhuo province, added another three hours to our airtime. It’s a bustling city of 3.5 million.

The modern airport, about the size of Bradley International in Connecticut, is nestled among mountainous peaks. The driver failed to appear, so we took a taxi to the Regal Hotel, a modern western operation in the heart of the city.

For the brief time we were in Beijing we barely attracted a second look and saw lots of other Caucasians. Here we stand out. After a brief walk around the block almost everyone we encountered looked us up and down (but in a friendly way).

Donna and Kira would use their limited Chinese and some of them would respond with limited English.

Our guide left us a note at the hotel saying rather than getting Jada on Monday afternoon the orphanage will be fringing her to our hotel lobby today at noon.

The government in China even works Sunday’s.