Two years ago, Bethel Park native Kristin Bair O'Keeffe followed her new husband to Shanghai, China. She's still there and chronicling her life.

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My husband and I are heading for Europe tomorrow, so my posts for the next three weeks will take you through Ireland, Paris, and yes, even Milan, Italy.

After living in Shanghai for more than two years now and loving it 90 percent of the time, I've gotten pretty good at knowing when I need a break. Here's what I notice when it's time for me to hit the road:

1. I yell at Shanghai drivers who drive through red lights, ignore pedestrians, and yes, even use the sidewalks as detours. Usually my tolerance for these unique Chinese driving patterns is fairly high, but when I've been in the city too long without a vacation, my temper flares. (Not pretty, I know.)

2. When the drivers mentioned in No. 1 continue to drive at me even when I'm yelling at them, I smack the hoods of their cars. (Even less pretty, huh?)

3. OK, OK, I'm coming clean. When it's time for a break, I also find myself yelling at the bicyclists who clearly believe that the road is theirs and theirs alone. (Please note, the last time I checked, there were more than 9 million registered bicycles in Shanghai. Nine million! That statistic doesn't even include the unregistered bicycles on the road. This is great for our environment, and for this reason, I support all cyclists in China ... except the ones that crash into me when I'm walking!)

4. I accidentally drink water from the tap, which is a no-no in China. But I miss it ... drinking from the tap ... or the backyard hose ... or even taking a sip during a shower if I happen to get thirsty while washing up.

5. My Mandarin gets jumbled, and when I try to ask, "Do you have any milk?" at the grocery store, instead I ask, "Do you have any cows?"

6. I miss family and boo-hoo a lot.

7. I, the woman who loves dumplings almost as much as my nephews do, get tired of eating dumplings. Tired of eating dumplings? Yes, this is a sure sign it's time for a break.

8. I set down my chopsticks and pick up a fork.

9. I talk to myself in elevators and other enclosed spaces.

10. I talk in accents -- Irish, Scottish, English, French, Italian, and much to my husband's surprise, a unique blend of all five. "Do you need a vacation?" he always says when I start this. "But of course," I say in an English accent. Or is it French?

So we're off! See you in Dublin!

Every week during my first months in Shanghai, I wandered through one wet market or another, taking photographs and investigating foods I'd never seen before: giant white radishes, spotted eggs, thick ropes of fresh noodles, pigs' tongues, lotus roots, live eels in buckets of water. Even the skinned head of a goat (at least I think it was a goat).

But I also loved yakking with the vendors whose rusty, lined faces were so different from my pale, mostly unlined one.

"Nihao," a woman would call from behind her baskets of dried beans, looking a little shocked to see a Western face in the mostly local crowd.

"Nihao," I'd answer, zooming in to take a photo.

At the time, I didn't speak much Chinese. I could say hello (nihao), goodbye (zai jian), and a few common nouns. I could also explain that I was from the United States (Wo shi Meiguoren). But even so, that little bit was enough. While I took photos, the vendors asked me questions. I did my best to guess what they were asking and answered in a humorous combination of Chinese, English, and pantomime. Pleased with my efforts (and probably my willingness to look a little foolish), almost all the vendors smiled and offered a small orange or a slice of watermelon.

But though these exchanges provided a certain level of comfort, things really changed for me one afternoon when I saw a man sitting among all these enormous boxes of deep red chili peppers.

As always, I raised my camera and looked through the lens. To my surprise, in the same moment, he had raised his cell phone camera to his eye to take a photo of me -- the lone foreigner. We stood there and looked at each other through our respective lenses, and then suddenly, both started laughing.

After a good chuckle, the man lowered his camera phone from his eye and gestured for me to go first. I snapped my photo, lowered my camera, and smiled. Then he framed my face and snapped his photo of me.

"Xie xie," I said. Thank you.

"Bu ke qi," he answered. You're welcome.

And off I went, my loneliness momentarily relieved and the strong itch I'd been suffering satisfactorily scratched.

Here's my dilemma: It's 12:30 on Friday afternoon. I've been working at my desk in my office since 6:30 this morning. I'm far from completing all the work I have to complete today, but the sun is high and bright, the sky is blue, and there's a nice breeze. Somehow summer snuck into Shanghai in the past 10 days and the lure of it is making me stir crazy.

My solution?

Pack up my Mac and my camera and head for one of my other "offices": Jamaica Blue or Amokka.

I take the elevator from my 23rd floor apartment to the lobby. Outside, I greet the guards, who chuckle at my hair because today I slightly resemble a woolly sheep (albeit a rather lovely woolly sheep). Along with summer in Shanghai comes a great deal of humidity so I won't have to work too hard to maintain this look for the next five months or so. Woolly sheep, it is.

Usually, when I have a lot of serious work to do, I go to Jamaica Blue, a coffee shop just around the corner from my apartment on Wulumuqi Road that has a fairly quiet second floor, lots of electronic outlets, and friendly staff. But it's a little boring, so today I cross Anfu Road and head into Amokka, a caf?? with a bit of charm.

Like a lot of the hip cafes opening all over Shanghai, Amokka is in a renovated house. It has a wee first floor with a few tables and a spacious second floor complete with funky light fixtures, a faux fireplace, wooden ceiling beams, fresh flowers in big glass vases, and lots of candles. Windows line both the front and back walls of the room, and all are thrown open to let in the warmth and the breeze. The Plane trees along Anfu Road (planted by the French at the turn of the 20th century) are in full leaf, and their bright, happy greenness reflects the sun.

Once I order my green tea with honey and slice of carrot cake -- which like most carrot cakes has way too many nuts in it! -- I'm happy, and yes, able to kick off my shoes, curl up on a cushioned chair, and get to work.

It's Labor Day in Shanghai...a national holiday during which banks, offices, and many restaurants are closed. The streets are quiet, and lots of locals and expats have hightailed it to greener pastures...at least until Sunday when everyone in the city has to go back to work.

Thankfully, as Andrew and I roamed the French Concession, we discovered that the hot, new Spanish restaurant, El Willy, was open for lunch, and since we'd heard so many rave reviews about the juicy paellas and tasty tapas, we opted to head on in.

As everyone reports, El Willy does its hip, warm, rosy atmosphere pretty well, and because it's set back from the urban jungle of Donghu Road, it actually makes you feel like you're in a little oasis...lets you breathe a little easier, let down your hair.

Like all hip restaurants in Shanghai, the lunch crowd at El Willy's was world culture all the way. We had Frenchies to the left and right of us, Italians two tables down, a Chinese family across the way, and a few Germans scattered about. (Andrew and I represented the Irish and American coalitions respectively.)

We ordered, ate, raved, drooled a little over the tapas ordered by the Frenchies, made reservations to return on Saturday evening with friends, and then, of course, said a quick prayer that El Willy would not follow in the footsteps of most new restaurants that open in Shanghai. Which are? Open big, make a rousing splash, offer great food and service, then rather quickly drift into mediocrity until doors officially close and signs are taken down.

The truth is, Andrew and I like paella. We like tapas. And we now know that we like El Willy's Madrid burger with Manchego cheese and sauteed mushrooms. So we would like El Willy to thrive (at least until we finish our dinner on Saturday).

Salud!

It's a beautiful, gorgeous, sandal-wearing Saturday in Shanghai. Sunshiny all over the place. My friend Natasha calls. She's in her car. "Do you want me to come get you?" she says.

"Please," I say. I've been buried in deadlines and book proposals and whatnot all week. I need a break.

Natasha's a painter, and she's a great one for hunting down art shows in Shanghai. Today is no exception.

First stop?

"The First Shanghai, China Antique and Artwork Exhibition" at the Shanghai East Asia Exhibition Center on Tianyaoqiao Road. Lots of stuff from the Ming and Qing dynasties (1368-1644, 1644-1911 respectively). I buy a ticket from a guy in the parking lot for RMB 20 (a little less than $3). Back home it would be called "scalping"; here it's just called "buying a ticket from a guy in the parking lot."

We head in. There are dozens of booths set up with antiques and antique art, and right off, I get the feeling that this stuff is the real thing, not the copies you find in the markets around Shanghai. My instinct is confirmed when a barefoot man sitting cross-legged on the floor in a booth tells me that the price of the Tibetan Thangka painting that I fall madly in love with is RMB 5,000 (a little over $700).

Yikes.

As I understand it, Thangka paintings are meant to serve as records and guides for meditative and contemplative experiences, and as busy as I am right now in my writing life, I think a Thangka painting might be a good thing for me. I could use a little meditation and contemplation. But after learning the price, I decide that perhaps a fake -- which might cost RMB 100 ($14) -- might work just as well. After all, it's about the experience, not the object, right?

Natasha and I ooh and ahh at various paintings and at one unique blue Buddha that we believe is carved from lapis lazuli ... a hunch we can't confirm because neither of us knows how to say lapis lazuli in Mandarin. Damn language barrier.

Just before we head to the exit, we see the highlight of the show: a scroll of painting by Badashanren, a monk and Taoist priest whose life straddled the Ming and Qing dynasties. Unfortunately, we have to pass on this one, too. It's expected to be auctioned off for at least RMB 20 million ($2.9 million).

Next stop?

The Shanghai Art Museum on Nanjing Road for the opening of the "Art with Heart" exhibition by Shanghai-born painter Ann Yen (who also happens to be married to the U.S. Consul General in Shanghai, Ken Jarrett).

This is a fabulous building with an impressively massive clock tower ... a heritage site that used to be the 1934 British Racing Club building. And yep, as Natasha promised, the exhibition is fabulous, too.

As we walk around, checking out the 100 or so paintings, I realize that this very charming Ann Yen -- who is at this moment having flowers, camera lights and loads of attention foisted upon her by a huge, supportive crowd -- can really, really paint. Some of her works are colorful and make me laugh (like the naked woman on a swing who looks like she's having the time of her life), and others are stark and quite serious.

"From Ming to new millennium," I think as Natasha and I head back into the sunshine.

"I want eggs," I say to my husband on Sunday morning. "Not scrambled in rice or hard boiled in green tea, but fried -- with a nice warm yolk and a side of sausage, hash browns, and a couple of slices of toast."

Andrew smiles. If the man can't have an Irish breakfast, his appetite can often be satiated with a good old American one. And even though we both acknowledge that here in Shanghai no good old American breakfast even comes close to the one we would get at Angie's in Newburyport, Mass., or Eat'n Park in Pittsburgh, we both admit that Kommune cooks up a pretty good one.

So we head straight to Taikang Road, which in the last five years or so has become Shanghai's answer to Soho. The intricate maze of narrow lanes is lined with traditional shikumen (stone-gate) houses that were built in the 1920s and that are being converted into art and commercial spaces faster than you can figure out how to say, "What's for breakfast?" in Mandarin.

We swing down Lane 210 and wend our way through the crowds, bypassing the trendy boutiques, Deke Erh's photography gallery, a couple of tea shops, and a yoga studio. We wander in circles, amazed at how many studios and shops have opened in the past few months, until we happen upon Kommune, the uber-hip cafe where on weekend mornings, the cooks actually prepare Western breakfasts on a grill.

A grill! In a Shanghai cafe! Sweet!

It's windy, so we head inside. As always, Kommune is packed with Shanghai's hippest -- Chinese and Western. The women are draped in long scarves and hide behind giant sunglasses; the men are frowsy and rumpled. Andrew and I take a corner table and place our order. From my seat, I watch the cook throw eggs and sausages on the sizzling-hot grill.

"Yee ha!" I say, knowing that my craving for Western fare is about to be satisfied.

Andrew laughs. "Drink your coffee," he says.

I put on my dark, bug-eye sunglasses, toss my silk scarf around my neck, lean back, and sip my mocha latte.

In September 2005, a good-looking Irishman named Andrew O'Keeffe surged into my life and swept me off my feet. Three months later, he said, "Let's get married and move to Shanghai, China."

"Shanghai, China?" I said. I'd never really thought about living in China. Italy would be nice, I thought. Or Spain. But China?

Andrew nodded vigorously. The international telecommunications company he worked for had just offered him a two-year post in Shanghai.

Lovestruck and wanderlusty, I said yes ... to marriage and to China.

Over the next few months, I quit my teaching gigs, found a good home for my dog, sold my Jeep and said a lot of tearful goodbyes.

In February 2006, during the season's worst snowstorm, Andrew and I got married. (Think gorgeous gown, snow boots, and black garbage bags wrapped around my head to protect my hair and makeup.)

Six weeks later, we moved from Newburyport, Mass., to Shanghai.

Throughout that time, a number of people yanked me aside to warn me of the dangers of making too many major life changes too quickly, but to that, I said, "Hogwash. Life changes all the time anyway ... might as well make it big."

I've been calling Shanghai home ever since.

Flashback: It's April 3 or 4, 2006. Andrew and I have just moved into our apartment in Shanghai. The refrigerator is empty. Our stomachs are growling. We need food.

"Carrefour," I tell the taxi driver, forgetting, of course, that Carrefour is the English word for the enormous, well-stocked grocery store that will provide sustenance for us. (In Mandarin, it is pronounced Jialefu, but at this point, we do not speak any Mandarin.)

After an animated exchange, the taxi driver insists he understands. He nods, revs the engine and takes off. Within seconds we are flying down the highway.

The highway?

We don't need the highway to get to Carrefour. This much I know. It is just a mile or two down the road.

As we whiz along, passing exit after exit, I tap on the plastic barrier that separates Andrew and I from the driver. The driver turns his head and looks at me.

"Where are you taking us?" I yell (again, in English).

The driver continues to look at me and yells back in Chinese. (Note to Future Travelers: Taxi drivers in China do not speak English, and if you talk to them while they drive, they will look at you for prolonged periods of time instead of looking at the road.)

"No, no," I say. "This is not the way to Carrefour."

As our English/Chinese exchange continues, I realize that the taxi is slowing ... and slowing ... and slowing ... until we are at a dead stop on the highway with hundreds of cars whipping past us at the speed of light.

"What are you doing?" Andrew and I both yell, waving our hands in the air. "Go, go!"

Adrenaline charges through me as I consider being smashed to a million bits on the highway just three days after moving to China, and I envision my family back home in Bethel Park eating hoagies from Danny's without me.

Sensing our panic, the taxi driver begins to drive ...

BACKWARD!!!!

Yep, reversing on the highway when you've missed your exit or are simply confused is a common occurrence in Shanghai.

Needless to say, since I'm writing this article today, we survived, We also eventually got some food.

During our first weeks in Shanghai, I experienced two significant moments.

The first occurred when I saw the Oriental Pearl Tower rising up on the far side of the Huangpu River like a futuristic Lady Liberty and thought, wow, Shanghai really is THE modern city of the future.

The second occurred when I realized that many of the Chinese folks who live in the old lane houses still use chamber pots at night when they're too tired to head down their very, VERY steep staircases to the communal john because they don't have indoor plumbing.

Huh?

After living in Shanghai for two years and now embarking on a third, the fact that Shanghai is a city of contrasts doesn't catch me off guard as often as it used to.

After all, within a one-block radius of my apartment in the French Concession area are a French restaurant, a hip wine bar, a market where you can get a live chicken killed on the spot or have your toads -- live again -- skinned for dinner, two or three chic dress boutiques, a store where you can buy fake sportswear (with brand names we all know and wear), an imported foods shop, a stand selling pirated DVDs, and at any given moment, a man with a bicycle cart hawking live chicks or ducks, paperback books, roasted chestnuts or flowers.

On the streets, Mercedes vie for room on the road with bicycle carts stacked sky-high with Styrofoam, wooden planks, water bottles and whatnot.

And at dawn, across the street from the tres posh Portman Ritz-Carlton hotel on Nanjing Road, older Chinese folks waltz on the sidewalk to music playing on a small boombox.

But that's the yin and yang of China, and on days when I try too hard to make sense of it all, I find myself standing dumbfounded on a street corner. It's better, I've found, simply to witness it. So on I go ... exploring the old lanes and wet markets with my camera, yakking with locals in my mediocre-but-hopefully-always-improving Mandarin, and when I'm feeling especially brave, trying to figure out how I fit into this crazy place.

Depending on how that goes, you might hear me saying one of two things to that good-looking Irishman of mine: "Geesh ... aren't we the luckiest people in the world?" or "Have we lost our bloody minds?"