I Came, I Saw, I Climbed the Great Wall

Spent about six hours on a bus today. It was a bit Gilligan’s Island-esque: The expected 7-hour organized tour to the Great Wall of China turned into a 9.5-hour adventure — where 6 of those hours were spent on a bus. I arrived just before the 9:00 a.m. scheduled departure time…and sat on the bus. I learned that in Beijing, there’s a propensity not to set estimated departure times and instead just opt to wait until the communal transport vehicle is full. In this case, the Chinese-language tour bus didn’t leave Beijing until about 9:30.

The first surprise I got was realizing there would be constant live narrative…in Mandarin. This guy stood up with a microphone and talked non-stop for the full hour it took to arrive at our first stopping point. I think he was pointing out the sites of Beijing, but since I don’t speak Mandarin, who really knows? I just know at one point I looked up from my Lonely Planet guide book and realized he was pointing to a building we were passing, and everyone else on the bus was looking at it. It wasn’t very interesting – or at least, it wasn’t an ancient-looking structure – so I didn’t feel I was missing anything.

But back to the tour: Our first stop was…wait for it…the Beijing Wax Palace of the Ming Dynasty. Wha..wha…what?! As I got off the bus, the Mandarin-speaking tour guide held up a batch of post-it notes with 11:30 written on it. It was 10:50, so apparently we had a 40-minute detour at the wax museum, which I opted to skip. So I sat in the lobby of the warehouse-like structure, twiddling my thumbs and occasionally perusing the super-kitschy, super-cheap souvenirs.

11:30: OK, everyone back on the bus…or not. Back to that whole waiting-until-the-bus-is-full thing, we hung out in the parking lot until 11:50 before heading to lunch. Except upon exiting the bus this time, the Mandarin-speaking tour guide flashed two times written on the post-it note; he mimed eating and pointed to the first time – 12:30 – before pointing at the bus and pointed to the second time – 1:00. Huh, wonder what we’re supposed to do for the next half hour before food time? I follow the masses into the building – warehouse size but with typical Chinese detailing on the front of the building – where we’re greeted by a woman who’s mic’d up and delivering a flurry of Mandarin. Not very helpful for me, but the others from the bus seem interested and are happy to follow her mic’d up, flag-waving self through the corridors, which fortunately include an English-language summary that details the history of jade manufacturing in China. Huh; we must be at a jade shop…yup, there’s the huge room with counters full of jade jewelry with pushy salespeople. Since I’m not so fond of the options, I just peruse through the hall before heading upstairs for lunch.

All I had to say was thank goodness for tofu. That was the only discernable item – besides the rice and broth with noodles. I know there was a whole fish of some sort that people were tearing at, but I steered clear of. Adding to the dubious nature of the lunch was remembering that as I walked down to this room, I was regaled with posters describing the history of the use of deer in the Yuan territory, including the health and nutritional benefits of deer intestines and deer hearts. So the mystery dishes may have included deer; not really sure.

By the time the bus leaves – pretty close to the appointed time this time – I’m hoping our next stop will be the Great Wall since that was why I bought the ticket in the first place. We drive for another 20 or so minutes that includes a gradual climb into what I consider to be foothills. And voila, there’s the Great Wall! That we just passed. Until we arrived at a section that has a whole bunch of other tour buses and what appears to be a tourist-catered sales area hawking more kitschy stuff and street-food-like grub. As I hop off the bus, I note that I’m supposed to be back by 15:35, and follow the crowds. Looks like I’m finally climbing the Great Wall.

I’m going to fast forward a bit to preface the next part by saying that as I was returning to the bus, I was seriously tempted to buy one of the kitschy “I climbed the Great Wall” sweatshirts being hawked. However, none of them adequately conveyed my experience. I think I’ll have to cafepress my own; it will say, “I fucking climbed the Great Wall. Have you?!?”

From my tagline, you could probably deduce that climbing the Great Wall kicked. my. ass. And I didn’t even go all the way to the last available guard tower – even though it was primarily a descent between the tower where I stopped and that final tower. That’s because I knew the way back would be a bitch of an incline. If you’ve never climbed the Great Wall, let me try to convey what it’s like to ascend: imagine cranking up the stair stepper at the gym to the greatest resistance level and walking it at a 70% angle. I kid you not; there were times that I had to bend over so I wouldn’t fall backwards down the crazy concrete path. Or there were times that I had to make these humongous pseudo-leaps to the next step, since the stairs were the height of my entire calf. Thankfully, there were rails on each side; otherwise, there would have been many, many injuries as people came sliding down the mountain.

Then I learned that going up these inclines was almost easier because my body mass and momentum weren’t propelling me forward, as was the case on the descent. I’m very proud to say I fell only once going downhill. And I didn’t feel too bad on the way up when I took breathing breaks at every opportunity. When I happened across other people audibly gasping for breath, I knew I wasn’t just an out-of-shape foreigner. Apparently, if that type of experience isn’t sufficiently exhilarating, there’s a Great Wall marathon. What? Who would do something like that?

So…yeah…I came. I saw. I fucking climbed the Great Wall.

And before I wrap this post, I’ve got to rant a bit: There’s a Disney-like conveyor car that slowly snakes its way up the mountain to the watch tower I didn’t make it to. All I’ve gotta say is, anyone who opts to take this means of transportation has never climbed the Great Wall, is a cheater, and DOES NOT qualify to order one of my cafepress shirts.

Applying for a Chinese Visa

After booking my flight to Beijing, I filled out my visa application. The plan was to drop it off at the Chinese consulate in Busan, then head up to Seoul for a week, then back to Busan to pick up my visa and take off for China the following day. However, when I took my application to the Chinese consulate, I was told my US permanent address was insufficient; I need to provide my address in Korea, too.

Ummm…that’s a bit problematic. My sister doesn’t even know her address – she uses the address of the school where she teaches (which happens to be right next door). I figure I should probably figure out her address, though, since the visa application is an official document.

So I head back to my sister’s place; when I reach the appropriate subway station, I find the area map, then jot down the name of the street — in Hangul (Korean characters) — she lives on, figuring I just need the street number and I’ll be set. When I reach her building, I realize there’s no building number – unlike the building that houses the Wooribank on the adjoining block (#44).

OK. Option 2: Go to my sister’s school and ask someone there what the address is. Fortunately, one of the assistants spoke English well enough to figure out what I was saying, and she gave me an envelope with the school letterhead. She also checked my sister’s address, so she wrote down the address for me. It looked like this:

707. ________________. 1641-2. _______________, where the first blank is the name of the building and the second blank is the district/borough in Busan. The information for the second blank is the same as that for the school that’s listed on the envelope, so that was easy to copy. However, my sister’s apartment is in a different building, so I asked the assistant if she knew the name of the building. She told me to find the name on the front of the building. This is what the front of the building looks like:

Um, yeah. Option 3: Go through the mail of other people who live in the building to find the building name. This was very much a process of elimination, as I mentally crossed out the Hongul characters for the country, city and district/borough. That left me with the Hongul characters that, when read aloud, sound kind of like “dee-bah-(r/l)ee-bee-tah.” So I jot that down, then go back out to look at the front of the building and realize it’s the bottom line of the banner on the building. So obvious.

Sometimes, I wish I could do this

Props to the foreign correspondent who threw a shoe at President Bush when he was in Iraq:

http://edition.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/meast/12/14/bush.iraq/index.html?eref=rss_topstories

It’s one thing to burn effigies of the American president in the streets amidst mass protests; it’s quite another to act alone in lodging your frustration and anger. In the former, you’re virtually anonymous and cannot be held accountable, whereas in the latter you know you’re going to be identified and judged for your behavior.

On the train back to Seoul

I’m off to Seoul for a week, and I have to admit, I’m a bit anxious. I’ve been living at my sister’s place in Busan the last two weeks, so I can hardly say I’ve been backpacking in the post-collegiate-European-jaunt sense of the word. But today I headed out with my monster backpack stuffed with clothes and toiletries yes, but also a towel and sheet — two essential items for the erstwhile traveler who plans to go low-budget on house to be able to splurge on local customs. I haven’t done this for over a decade, so I remind myself that was just fine as a single gal backpacking through Paris, Rome and Florence, so I’ll be just fine now, when I’m 10 years wiser.

I *think* I’ve reserved tickets for a pansori, a traditional Korean stage performance that apparently is the anchor of the “Korean Wave” — which is what the South Koreans use to describe international interest in their traditional performance art. I say I think I’ve reserved a ticket because the Chongdong Theater is closed on Monday, so I only sent a “reservation request” through the English-language version of the Web site. No actual payment for a ticket, and no reservation confirmation number. I plan to call the theater when I arrive in Seoul, but a mangled-English phone conversation isn’t likely to provide that much insight. They go something like this:

“An nyung ha say o”
“Hello. Do you speak English?”
“On no. Please wait minute.”
“Yes”
click…silence for 60 seconds
“An nyung ha say o”
“Hello. Do you speak English?”
“Little eengli-she”
“I would like to reserve one ticket please”
“Wa persa?”
“Yes. One person.”
“Wa persa. Day?”
“Thursday.”
“Tuesday?”
“No. Eleven December.”
“Oh. Eeleben Deesehm.”
“Yes.”
“You name?”
We spend about 2 minutes going back and forth while I spell my name in English, they repeat the spelling they heard, I invariably correct them, then they repeat the new spelling, until I decide it’s close enough and they probably won’t have any other foreigners showing up claiming to be me. They also ask for my email address to send a confirmation email; luck me, my email address is my full first and full last name, so I get to spell everything all over again, then read it back to me, I correct, and so on.

Now repeat this process another four times to make lodging accommodations and reservations for a few other cultural activities. You can see how this took upwards of an hour to complete. Following these stellar exchanges, I promptly located the email address for each business and sent a confirmation message to hope someone could match it with the conversation that just occurred. So far, that worked for the two places I reserved for my accommodations.

Naked Cocoon

South Korea apparently has the groundsprings of mineral water that are great for hot springs throughout the country. My Frommer’s guidebook sprinkled several of them throughout the options of things and places to visit during a Korean holiday, so I included one on my list of things to do and see while I’m in Pusan. In addition to being able to sit in the hot springs, there are opportunities for full-body exfoliation and massage treatments and sitting in saunas. For a relaxing vacation, a trip to the hot springs spa soundsedperfect, especially since the dollar is so much stronger than the Korean won. The only hitch: The norm here is to go naked. Hmmm….Well, when in Rome, right?

I got to the spa, which was about 45 minutes away from the apartment by subway, and checked in at the counter. Once I got to the locker room, I stripped down, hit the pre-hot spring cleansing showers, and joined 50 or so of my newest, closest friendly strangers to sit and enjoy the relaxing effects of the mineral waters.

As I stepped into the first pool, which was set to a balmy 33C (91.4F), I casually glanced around to get a sense of who was there. Most of the women were grandmother-age – maybe late 60s, early 70s, although there were some middle-aged women with children, and a few women who appeared to be in their 20s. They were all sitting comfortably in the waters around this huge room (there was a large pool in the middle of the room that was divided into three sections; that was surrounded by about 6 smaller pools throughout the rest of the room). Some were chatting with each other; some appeared to be sleeping. Everyone was naked.

It was at this point that I thought to myself (because I sure as hell couldn’t say this to anyone there, and I really wouldn’t want to talk to a naked stranger while I, too, was naked — even if we did speak the same language) that if there were facilities like this in America, there may be less of an obsession over weight and body image – because women of all shapes and sizes come to this spa. There were slim young women; older women with sagging breasts who had had children and had the stretch marks to prove it; women with large breasts and no bums; women with no breasts and large bums; women with thick thighs; women who were losing their hair; women who were so old they appear to be just skin and bones. Being surrounded by all these women without clothes, without makeup, without their hair styled, was both humbling and empowering. There was absolutely no way to be self-conscious in this environment, because everyone was operating on the same level: real woman, not idealized woman. I felt like I was in my very own Dove “real beauty” commercial.

OK, enough with the philosophizing. I was there to veg out, so I scoured the facility for the promised massage area. I stumbled upon an area on the upper level for mud baths and massages, and found three women, sitting and chatting, naked, by the massage tables. After gesturing at the menu of services, I was directed to hop onto one of the massage tables, and this skin-and-bones woman of 55 or so came up to me and started massaging my face and applying cucumber pulp. This, I thought, would be great – all natural ingredients, moisturizing cucumber mask, let the relaxing massage time be…wait, what’s that scratchy thing? Oh yeah, I’m getting the exfoliating massage – which I’ve never had before and I learn is done by using mittens that have the texture of sand paper, which are then rubbed up and down the body with some gritty exfoliating scrub. OK, I can handle this. I can definitely handle the warm-water rinse that’s tossed on me; jarring at first, but definitely pleasant.

What I couldn’t handle was the massage technique. This was no Swedish massage. This wasn’t even a deep tissue massage. This was a manipulate-the-foreigner’s-body-into-a-pretzel-and-beat-the-toxins-out-of-the-system massage. If you’ve never had one…I don’t recommend remedying that fact. There were times when this woman twisted my legs at angles that I swear would have popped knees and ankles out of joint had I attempted this on my own. There were times when this woman’s elbows/knuckles/heels/knees were dug so deeply into my back/shoulder/stomach that I thought I might just pass out from the pain. There were times when I found myself clutching at the sides of the table to relieve some of the tension in my body as I contracted muscles in reaction to the deep-tissue pounding my body was taking. At one point, I realized I was clutching the table because I was so slicked up with lotion I almost slipped off while flipping from stomach-to-back-to-stomach again; in fact, I was so lotioned-up that the woman was able to move my entire body by putting her forearm across my neck and tugging upward. This massage was anything but relaxing.

After being pummeled by a woman who could have been my grandmother, I headed back down to the hot springs and promptly hopped into the 45C (113F) pool, which felt like heaven. I spent the next 30 minutes trying out the different hot-spring pools, going from the salt bath to the grape bath to the jasmine bath to the outdoor air bath and ending up in the oak-wood sauna. Overall, despite the bruising massage, I fully enjoyed my afternoon at the hot springs spa.

Jarod asked if I have a movie for this trip. I told him Cocoon: sitting in those pools with all those older women reminded me of the scenes in Cocoon when the old people living in the retirement centers flocked to the pod-infested pools because of their rejuvenative effects. This was when I was reminded of the age gap, as both Jen and Jarod looked at me with blank expressions and asked, “What’s Cocoon?” *Sigh*

When John Candy Meets Chevy Chase

I told my sister and her bf that I’d started a movie theme with my vacation blogs, given the Lost in Translation and Perfect references in the previous two posts, so they’ve been asking me what movies describe my other experiences so far. I’ve been thinking for a while on the movie that’s most apt to describe Thanksgiving dinner, and the best I can come up with is a cross between The Great Outdoors with John Candy and any National Lampoon holiday/vacation movie.

This was my introduction not only to attempts to cater to foreigners living in Korea, but to the English-teaching ex-pat experience. I met people from South Africa, Canada and all parts of America. I learned about the quirky routines people established here to make Korea feel less foreign and more like home, since these people are living and working here – not just having an extended vacation jaunt.

Jen, Jarod, and I were three of the 10 or so English-speaking people in our group that booked a traditional Thanksgiving dinner at this bar that caters to foreigners; I think our group was one of 4 that were there that night. Since our group was so large, we merited two home-cooked turkeys, which were delivered in their tin foil roasting pans, all wrapped in foil. They were accompanied by a few paper plates that held the plastic utensils and butter knives, as well as a very large bowl full of lettuce…which we were told we needed to eat immediately as our pre-dinner salad so that bowl could be used for the mashed potatoes. Dinner wouldn’t be complete without the obligatory cranberry sauce, which we received – can-rings and all! – as well as dinner rolls, stuffing, gravy and the aforementioned mashed potatoes. At each end of the table, the guys carved the two birds using the butter knives we received, and we all dug in like it was the Last Supper. We capped our meal with apple and pumpkin pie, both of which were carefully divvied up for everyone to enjoy. And all of this food was provided by the beanie-wearing waiter/bartender who may or may not have owned or worked at the bar, because I really don’t understand Korean laws regarding foreigners working in the country and/or owning businesses in the country.

In all, it was a really nice way to spend Day 3 in Korea, especially after we made it back to the apartment without incident in the taxi, despite the taxi driver nearly running over a pedestrian because of his indecision over whether to stop at an intersection (the taxi driver, not the pedestrian).

Paging John Travolta?

I joined the gym that my sister and her boyfriend to, which happens to be less than a block away from where they live. Talk about convenient! Anyway, I went this morning, but only after making myself wait for the sun to rise, since I had woken up at 6:00 a.m. because of this whole jet-lag thing. But I digress…

This gym is like the one in Rocky: Some treadmills, some bike machines, but the majority of the place is taken up by free weights and big empty rooms that apparently are used for aerobics classes. I hop on a treadmill, and then realize everything is measured in metric units, so instead of plugging in my preferred mph speed, I set it to some random km/h and try to work out the calculation as I’m running. I figured that was sufficient to keep my mind somewhat occupied, when I wasn’t watching the construction pit just outside the window. It was either that or start singing along to “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” Except I don’t know the Korean version, and that’s what’s blasting across the speakers, except for the refrain. It was as weird hearing that weird version as it was yesterday in the department store hearing the Korean-English version of “It’s Raining Men.”

So as I continue my workout, I realize there’s an alarming number of Korean women coming to the gym wearing shiny leotards and leg warmers. Hmmm, odd. Then I notice that before starting their workouts, they all strapped themselves into an old-school fat-jiggler machine. Not kidding. The penultimate was the older woman – say, early 50s – who came in with her shiny leotard, puffy white gym shorts, hot-pink t-shirt, turquoise-blue rope headband, and neon green leg warmers. Between the Abba’s greatest hits album that’s now booming out over the sound system and this get-up, the only thing missing is John Travolta from that ’70s film “Perfect.” Totally surreal.

Might Need to Retake Geography Class

Because I opted for a courtesy dinner coupon from United and didn’t have any yen to pay for an overpriced hotel breakfast, I start the day with the second of three peanut-butter Balance bars I had packed. I figured once I made it through security and immigration at the airport, I could pick up a coffee or something in the terminal before boarding my “delayed” flight. Like manna from heaven, the illuminated forest green, black and white Starbucks logo beckoned down the hallway, so I thought I would turn to the corporate-but-so-welcome-to-see coffee chain for my morning fix. As I approached the Starbucks, it struck me that this international airport was unusually silent, as in could-hear-a-pin-drop silent, and the duty-free stores lining the walkway weren’t open. Hmmm, does not bode well for a pre-flight, overpriced latte. And as I reached the Starbucks counter, my hopes were fully dashed when I learned that the location didn’t open until 7:30 – after we needed to board the plane. Thwarted! *sigh*

The “delayed” flight took off as re-scheduled at 8:00 with hardly anyone on board. We received the welcome news that since the flight was so sparsely filled, we could sit anywhere we wanted to have additional space and not be seated virtually on top of each other…except you had to stay in the class you purchased. So no free upgrades to the economy, business, or first class sections, which remained tantalizingly empty the duration of the flight. Now if I were running an airline, I’d tell my flight crews that in that situation, it’s completely appropriate to let people move on up to first class – that it should be considered free advertising for the higher-paying class of seats. Let the economy-paying people like me get a taste of what it’s like to be spoiled by fully-reclining chairs and at-your-beck-and-call premium wine lists and such, and maybe the economy-paying people will shell out the extra cash on future trips. Alas, I’m not running an airline, so this fly-in-first-class-as-a-marketing-ploy option didn’t pan out.

On the up side, I had a brilliant view of Mt. Fuji, the internationally recognized symbol of Japan. I could see it in the distance as we were taxiing on the jetway (it looked kinda like this, but further away), but I got a stellar view (like this) as we fly adjacent to it on our way west. As we flew past and I looked out my window, I acknowledged that had my flight not been “delayed” overnight, I would have missed that amazing sight because I would have been flying at night. (By the way, I apparently failed geography, because I thought that image was Mt. Kilimanjaro, until my sister oh-so-kindly – ok, there was a bit of snark involved – told me Mt. Kilimanjaro is in Africa; me being me, I had to Google it to see who was right.)

Day 1: I Am Bill Murray

I feel like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation: I just muted the TV in my hotel room because there’s something deeply jarring about watching the New York Jets take on the Tennessee Titans and having the play-by-play broadcast in what I can only presume is Japanese. I wouldn’t know for sure because I can neither speak nor understand the language. And so concludes Day 1 of my five-week vacation in South Korea. Only I’m not in South Korea. I’m in Tokyo…or Narita, which may or may not be a district in or a suburb of Tokyo because I don’t have a map.

After the 10- to 13-hour flight from Los Angeles to Tokyo, where I was supposed to hop on a connecting flight to Seoul to crash for the night before training down to Busan, I learned my connecting flight had been “delayed” for…wait for it…14 hours! BTW: I’m not really sure how long my trans-Pacific flight was because I didn’t pay attention to the itinerary, and flying over the International Date Line completely confused all calculations I tried to make. I just know it was pretty cool flying north along the west coast, then hugging the Alaskan coastline as it extends toward Russia. I imagine we stayed just outside of Russian airspace over the Pacific Ocean as we then flew southward to Japan. Huh; wonder if I’m qualified to be vice president now?

But I digress. I think United used the term “delayed” to describe the change in flight plans because it could cause mayhem to announce to hundreds of people who’ve been cooped up on a trans-oceanic flight that their connecting flight has been cancelled. Because really – a flight that leaves 14 hours after its originally scheduled departure is only “delayed?” In my book, a 14-hour “delay” that results in a departure the following day seems like a cancellation to me.

Regardless, there’s really nothing to be gained by regressing into juvenile histrionics or, perhaps more accurately, switching into the “annoyed bitch” persona who usually emerges only when I’m starving with no food in sight. I’m one of 200+ people who have the same problem, and it’s not like I can just take my business elsewhere at this point without incurring major expenses and, in lieu of spoken dialogue in comprehensible English or Japanese, using hand gestures that I hope are universal – but not universally offensive. So I choose the path of least resistance and accept the hotel voucher and trust that I’m understanding the disjointed English spoken by the United customer service woman, from whom I learn (fingers crossed!) that my boarding pass will suffice for the 8:00 a.m. flight tomorrow, that I don’t need to claim my checked baggage because it will just get loaded automatically onto the plane to Seoul, and I can spend up to $15 in food and 3 minutes on international calls at the hotel. So I roll with it – literally, as I step up onto the bus full of travel-weary souls, some of whom have flown from Chicago through Los Angeles with the expectation of a third leg to their journey before landing in Bangkok, or if they’re really lucky, a fourth leg into Laos. As the bus leaves the terminal, the automated voice details our route in English and who knows what other language(s), but I’m struck by the chipper-yet-innocuously delivered message that the bus will pass the hotel and then double back – for security reasons. Wh, wha- what?!? What exactly is going on that security precautions are needed to shuttle around stranded foreigners at the nearest hotel?

After checking into my hotel room, I begin the process of settling, unpacking my carry-on bag, getting the lay of the room, using the restr… um, wait a minute, there’s a button that says “shower” on the toilet. It’s right next to the “bidet” button and the “temperature” button. What is this? I’ve heard of a bidet, but an automated butt-shower? I opt not to shower my bum, but I do appreciate the heated seat Sadly, this settling-in period is when I realize my oh-so-brilliant packing plan, where I thoughtfully put a change of clothes, fresh socks and underwear at the top of my monster-sized backpack so when I did arrive in Seoul at night, it would be extremely easy to shower and change…ummm, not so brilliant since that bag is still in the possession of United Airlines at the Tokyo Narita airport. *sigh* Back to washing my clothes in the sink, a la the collegiate European backpacking trip I took a decade ago.

It’s at this point I realize my boss was right: When I had mentioned that I felt like I had forgotten how to travel abroad because it has been years since I had done so, she reassured me that it would all come back to me once I got “in-country.” Nothing like not having a change of clothes, not speaking a word of the local language, not having any local currency for essential items, not knowing if my luggage really would be waiting for me in Seoul, and not knowing if I really was guaranteed a seat on the “delayed” flight rather than just wait-listed on the next regularly scheduled flight, to force you to figure out how to… just roll with it. Because really, what else could I do?

In Defense of Sarah Palin

Was thinking about posting my own “in defense of SP” blog earlier, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, given my vitriolic enmity against Kristi Burton — whom Sarah Palin mirrors on a national level. But this post gave me the extra-hard nudge I needed to come to her defense.

Interesting that many of the allegations that are coming from within the Republican ranks are similar to the questions that were raised immediately after she was picked, but that those same Republican ranks pointed to as partisan, sexist attacks. Kind of smacks as “Do as I say, not as I do” for the Republican insiders to portray her after-the-fact as not qualified for the job, while they were tying themselves into knots trying to make everyone else believe the ludicrous claim that she had more experience than anyone on the Democratic ticket.

Interesting that John McCain, who claimed that he always puts country first (by the way, isn’t this something that someone else should say about you? it’s kind of like making up your own nickname — takes all credibility away) and that he had the leadership experience necessary to be the commander in chief, selected a running mate who divided the country yet he stubbornly refused to acknowledge that impact on the race. Even worse, after a very graceful concession speech on Election Night — if McCain had acted that way on the campaign trail, the race may have been much tighter and we may have even had a different outcome — he’s awfully quick to cede any form of leadership of his own party and is likewise willing to stand quietly by as his pick for the #2 spot has her character publicly denigrated by his campaign team.

In less than a week, McCain has demonstrated all those claims of being a maverick who will take on the GOP were empty promises uttered to appeal to voters. In less than a week, McCain also has shown that any of the “united for a common purpose” or “leave no one behind” mentality that is supposed to resonate with all military personnel means absolutely nothing to him when it comes to his own running mate.

The fact that McCain’s not willing to stand by his selection of Sarah Palin as his vice presidential pick is so much more revealing of his willingness to forego his own principles than it is of Sarah Palin’s alleged character flaws. If I were any of the 99 colleagues in the U.S. Senate who will be working with him when Congress reconvenes, I’d think more than twice about negotiating with McCain and expecting him to stand by his position or to defend the agreement publicly.