Beijing, China - It's just a T-shirt. Or so we thought.

The shirts were 'banned' by the Chinese government. (AFP/Getty images)

Our search for the so-called "communist Obama" T-shirt began with a capable intern scouring markets in Beijing. It depicts U.S. President Barack Obama wearing a Red Army uniform, the "Chinese communist-style" outfit made famous by Chairman Mao. On the front it says, "Serve the People" in Chinese. On the back, "Oba-Mao" in English.

Our first scan of Beijing turned up nothing. But a tip led us to the basement of Shin Kong Place. In an unassuming souvenir shop, we found a T-shirt in extra-large. During our flight from Beijing to Shanghai to cover the president's arrival, a news blitz indicated the shirts had been "banned" by the Chinese government amid worries that they may offend the American president.

Thank goodness we'd gotten ours in time!

But there was no way to confirm the government had indeed taken the shirts off the shelves, so we decided to check for ourselves. We headed to Yatai Xinyang market at a Shanghai metro stop in search of Obama-branded merchandise.

The Chinese also make wallets and trading cards featuring the "Communist Obama" image.

We found nothing but could not be sure they hadn't sold them there before. So, I chose that opportune moment to do a piece to camera with the shirt in hand. Bad move? Maybe. But it ended up being great television.

Two security guards happened to pass by at the moment I announced to the camera: "This is the T-shirt everybody is talking about." And that was it. They scrambled toward us and tried to pry the shirt out of my hands. I didn't give in.

Technically, we did not have permission to film in the market. And the security guards scolded us for not getting permission ahead of time.

There was a bit of yelling and quite a scuffle. My producer Jo Kent emphatically stated our case. Photographer Miguel Castro kept his cool. By this point, we had everything on tape.

We ended up being detained for two hours in the cold maze of a market. A crowd gathered round. More security and then police showed up. They wanted our press cards, our passports, but most of all, they wanted the shirt.

Ultimately, they confirmed that we were indeed "real" journalists (that is legally reporting in China.) But that didn't stop them from scolding us and making it very difficult to leave. After asking repeatedly and then one last time for the shirt, I refused.

Finally, they let us go. Phew!

It was worth it. The shirt got attention on the air and sparked buzz online. In fact, some members of the White House pool and a few colleagues in Atlanta actually tried to bribe me for it.

Nothing like juxtaposing communism and democracy in more ways than one. Just another day on the job.

TOKYO, Japan - U.S. President Barack Obama landed in Tokyo, Japan, on Friday in his first stop of his Asian tour. The White House press corps jumped into action, watching the president’s every move. Not in person, mind you, but on TV monitors.

CNN’s Ed Henry and Dan Lothian report on U.S. President Barack Obama’s arrival in Japan.

Due to security and agreed-upon pool arrangements, one camera shoots the landing and a pool reporter informs the rest of the White House reporters. It’s an unusual sensation sitting next to fellow correspondents watching pool TV and then reporting what they’ve seen on their TV channels.

I’m sitting next to CNN White House correspondents Ed Henry and Dan Lothian. They do this every day, following the president’s every move, his every word. How they report the news has the potential to affect governments around the world and the citizens of those governments. 

The White House pool is a smooth system - there’s barely been a hiccup today. There won’t be very much face-to-face time with either President Obama or Prime Minister Yukio Hatoyama, but there will be electronic eyes tracking every move.

(CNN) –  My trip back to my native Bulgaria this summer took on a special meaning because of an event that changed the course of history and my life! Twenty years since the fall of communism in Eastern Europe, I was taking special notice of how things had changed. I noticed a new generation gap, separating those like me, who grew up with communism, from those who have no memory of it.

I came face to face with that reality on the plane back home to the United States. 

I was chatting with a 20-something Bulgarian college student on her way to a student work program in the U.S, when I had a flashback to 1991, and my own trip to America when I was that age.  I almost didn't make it. Not because I was late for my flight. But because, to use a famous Cold War scholar's phrase, "history" had not quite "ended" in 1991.

Just a month before my flight, communists opposed to Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev's reforms, deposed him. All of sudden, it seemed, my dream CNN job could have been shut down behind the "Iron Curtain."

Fears grew in Bulgaria, that a return of communism in Russia would bring the Cold War back to tiny Bulgaria. A week later, it was over. The communist revival attempt failed, I was free to board my trans-Atlantic flight!

I glanced over at the young woman sitting beside me. Such a relief that history is no longer in our way. But even though we're both enjoying the benefits of change, there's one big difference. I experienced that history first hand; she's only heard about it from her mom. And that's a generation gap I gladly embrace.

I can still taste the concrete powder that filled the air when the Wall came down. It had a chalky sense of history about it. A taste one never forgets.

Evelyn Preuss in the rubble-filled streets of post-war Berlin.

My parents emigrated to the U.S. in 1960, seeking a better way of life. They were both children of war. My father, Gunter Preuss, grew up as a German in occupied Poland. He has lots of stories about death and suffering. Things a child should never witness.

My mother, Evelyn, is a Berliner. She fled into the cellar during Allied bombing runs. They never knew whether their house would be there when the all clear siren rang. Another example of things a child should never witness.

After the war, she said “Berliners just picked themselves up and rebuilt.” My family settled in New Orleans, Louisiana.

We grew up in middle class suburbia - a long way from the bombed out streets of Berlin. It was important to my parents that we spoke German in the house and visit relatives overseas. So in the summer, my brother and I would head to Germany - the divided one.

One grandmother lived in Kassel, West Germany. It seemed just like home but hilly with castles. I remember U.S. troop training and seeing tanks rolling down the streets. It made me feel proud, even though the Germans called us “Ami’s.”

The trip to see my other relatives in West Berlin was quite an adventure for us kids. We would drive through an East German border town. There were machine guns and guard dogs. There was an overriding feeling of paranoia and fear.

The soldiers never smiled and seemed angry. This was not something we ever expected. This became my legacy of the Cold War. Something the friends back home could not relate to.

Back in the safety of West Berlin, we once again felt cozy. I never did spend a lot of time at the Wall during those visits, but always felt its presence.

I remember once discussing the Wall with my parents. Mom said: “It is part of our lifestyle, we are divided there will never be one Berlin.”

Flash forward to November 1989. CNN was broadcasting the impossible. The Wall was coming down.

My mother and I knew we had to be there. We made travel arrangements. My memories of that heady time are filled with joyful trepidation.

Was it really true? Am I climbing on top of the Wall with hammer, chisel and spray paint cans? My mother’s first thought - “I wish my mother could have seen this, she would never have believed it.”

Evelyn and son, CNN's Andreas Preuss, at the falling Wall.

Mom was been back several times but staying still in the West area. I went back during the German Presidential Election a few years ago. There were construction cranes all over.

That feeling of paranoia was gone. The heady taste of capitalism was alive and well. A lot of money, hope and promise was filling the former Wall Zone.

My second hometown was changing. Places that I remembered as being the most prominent streets like the Ku-Damm seemed worn down and forgotten.

The buzz was in the East. I did find a spot where mom and I touched the Wall. It was now part of an outdoor museum and a reminder for all to see.

TOKYO, Japan – When Hideki Matsui lifted up the trophy for the World Series Most Valuable Player (MVP) award, it was a moment felt deeply by Masanori Murakami. Murakami was the first Japanese player brought in to play for the San Francisco Giants in 1964.

Hideki Matsui celebrates with the World Series MVP trophy at Yankee Stadium on November 4, 2009.

He wasn't just the first Japanese, he was also the first Asian to enter the American sport. This was before Japan's emergence on the global stage and less than 20 years after World War II.

Murakami didn't have the million dollar contracts, the interpreters or the kind crowds. "I envy those young players," Murakami said. "It was much tougher for me. I faced a lot of discrimination."

That is an understatement. Murakami, ever polite and humble as an elder Japanese gentleman, doesn't like to talk about those fearful times, when he was badgered on the San Francisco Giants bus by his own teammates.

The public was even worse - the FBI was alerted due to death threats against Murakami and his manager.

Forty-five years later, Matsui is a national hero, both in Japan and in the U.S. He's joined by Major League Baseball giants Daisuke Matsuzaka and Ichiro Suzuki.

"Japan and the U.S. are like brothers now," Murakami said. These brothers now toast their new hero and celebrate his accomplishment in the World Series. But for Murakami, it's beyond celebration. It is a triumph.

HONG KONG, China – My recent interview with Aki Ra, a Cambodian dedicated to landmine removal after being forced as a child by Khmer Rouge to plant mines, reminded me of my own close brush with unexploded ordnance.

A Cambodian woman walks past a landmine awareness sign near the Thai border in July 2007.

I was on a reporting assignment in former Khmer Rouge turf in northern Cambodia.

After hours riding on a bumpy road, nature called. We were in an area that had just reportedly been cleared of landmines and the government was resettling military families there.

Some villagers came out to greet us. We asked for a bathroom but there was none. Instead, they pointed to a path that still had a sign warning about the presence of landmines. You can never be sure if the mines are all gone, they said, so just stay on the path and find a spot along the way.

There were no trees and I juggled modesty with safety as I hesitatingly inched down the path. I turned back a few times and saw the dozen or so villagers standing on the road, watching my progress.

I finally got my business done and briskly returned along the path to our car.

But I have never forgotten that moment. It made me think of the risks that Cambodians, and others living in such heavily-mined countries - Iraq, Colombia, Afghanistan - take everyday to go about their daily lives: Tilling a field to cultivate crops, walking to school, rounding up the family's livestock or even finding a spot for a community outhouse.

As a reporter for an international news agency in the country for more than two years, I encountered many Cambodians - old and young - whose futures in one of the world's poorest countries were literally hobbled by these weapons of war.

They all made do with their challenging situations in a country where physical fitness is part of daily survival, since many Cambodians are doing some type of farming or fishing to put food on the table.

Meeting Aki Ra, who has now started his own non-profit group to rid the country of mines, reminded me how much this sad legacy of decades of conflict will continue to linger on for Cambodians until the last mine is cleared. Read the article on Aki Ra

REYKJAVIK, Iceland - All reporters will tell you from time to time that they do their work out of love of the story, a need to tell the world. This, I’m sorry to say, is not one of those times.

There are some CNN assignments which are performed not from either of those noble motivations but simply from duty, or happening to be in the right place at the right time, which really means you are in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I feel like a voyeur at a funeral. A vile rubber-necker craning to get a fleeting glimpse of the carnage as I pass a road crash, disguising my macabre interest as a considerate deceleration to preserve the safety of the attendant emergency service personnel.

I have come to Iceland to report for The Screening Room on the country’s cinematic prowess.  I shall likely leave it as a leper, cast out by my hosts for invading their time of grief.

“How do you feel?” I ask, cursing myself at uttering the question which has become known as the ultimate journalistic cliché. “How do you feel…about the situation?”

I cannot bear even to mention the name of my subject, but I don’t need to. The first few targets of my intended interview rush past, evading the red and white CNN mike box. Apparently nerves remain raw and emotions are running high.

In less than 48 hours from my filing of this report, Iceland, a country of a mere 300 thousand souls – is destined to become a more soulless place as its three branches of the mighty McDonald's forest are lopped off by the tree surgeon of global finance.

The closure of McDonald's most northern empire sends ripples of fear across the world, reaching even as far as Hobart, whose 300 thousand citizens must wonder whether a similar fate may befall the jewel of Tasmania’s cultural diversity – the world’s most southerly branch of Starbucks.

But such global questions must rest unanswered for now as my brief confines me to this sad volcanic rock in the north Atlantic whose very  geology appears to rise up in surly resentment against this fast food fatality. It hisses steam and spits lava from every nook and fissure. It’s as if the Devil himself is sending a dark warning directly from Hell about the folly of the financial freeze. Forming an unholy alliance, the heavens open and pour liquid gloom upon my presence in this beautifully barren wasteland.

Upon arrival at Reykjavik’s international airport the departure board displays a sign of things to come - the last flights of the day are to Boston and New York, destined no doubt to be packed with deserters as an exodus begins in search of the burger so cruelly denied to the indigenous populace. For those in search of such culinary comfort closer to home, a flight to the Irish capital Dublin will provide the nearest McDonalds outlet - a mere 2,000 kilometers from the runways of Reykjavik.

Iceland’s tiny population provides an obstinate challenge to national supremacy on an international stage. Even in the competition for the world’s most expensive Big Mac it could muster only a bronze medal position, deprived of gold by its Nordic neighbors Norway and Sweden.

When its chance finally arrived, with the Icelandic currency plummeting in the wake of the global financial crisis, the imported ingredients of a Quarter Pounder soared to sensational heights. But just as it seemed destined to become the priciest patty on earth, the Happy Meal was forced to make way for misery as the franchise-holders, brothers Gon and Magnus Ogmundsson, told an unsuspecting world that he would tear down the golden arches and rip the relish from the hearts of hamburger-lovers.

Of course I’m using journalese here. What they actually said was that Iceland’s unique economic circumstances made it impossible to continue and that McDonalds had actually been very sympathetic and supportive during tough times for the business.

Nonetheless Iceland’s polar population, as with many populaces around the world, was polarized by the arrival of McDonald's. The burger brand seems to split communities into fundamentalists who regard it as either a sign of civilization or the evil ambassador of American imperialism.

The Ogmundsson’s plan to replace McDonald's with locally sourced food creates an opportunity to tap into the island’s own culinary heritage.

Iceland’s natural resources – steam and rock – and its lack of other resources – mayonnaise, hamburger relish, sesame buns, onion rings – have shaped its cuisine. But locally sourced food here actually means cheaper food. However, far from pickled herring, moss, minke whale, stewed seaweed or any of the abundant fresh seafood waiting to be steamed in the island’s volcanic oven, the Ogmundssons plan to replace McDonald's with an Icelandic burger bar.

I finally manage to lure a vox pop out of a local. She didn’t want to give her name for obvious reasons. She was about 18, with dyed black spiky hair, 13 earrings and a pierced tongue to complement her abundant tattoos. I tried to add concern and sincerity to my question.

“How do you feel?”

Her reply didn’t surprise me.

“I don’t really care. Never touched the stuff. Good riddance as far as I’m concerned.”

Clearly the young woman was in denial, fortified by the false bravado of youth.

A middle-aged couple, probably out to console themselves by revisiting favorite Icelandic landmarks, mustered what they supposed to be a cheery wave.

The woman brushed away a tear, mumbling something about the bitter wind, but I was not taken in.

“McDonald's.” I said. “I’m so sorry to ask, but how are you coping?”

“Never been in there in my life,” the man lied. "Glad to see the back of it.”

He was a convincing actor who, rare among those who have savored the irresistible blend of egg, sausage and muffin in the gloriously named “Sausage and Egg McMuffin,” could deliver such a damning verdict with a straight face. De Niro would meet his peer in this remarkable Reykjavikian.

Indeed the evidence pointed to the contrary as people headed in droves to the drive-in, queued around the block, with lines of teenagers bursting out of the door, desperate to get their final fix of this forbidden food.

As I stood in the street and watched the light turned off in McDonald's Icelandic flagship store for the para-penultimate time I heard a clock strike midnight.

I knew it was time for me to leave this day of the damned. A wake for the passing of the patty. A wake-javic in Reykjavik.

With a heavy heart and heavy stomach, my greasy finger pressed “return” on my laptop and my report was done. In years to come people may rejoice in the majesty of the northern lights, the music of Bjork or Sigur Ros and the luxury of the Blue Lagoon. But from this time on they will never share the communal joy of a happy meal with a Shrek 4 mobile phone toy or substituting extra fries with a fruit bag just to annoy the kids. Think on this you global bankers as you contemplate your multi-million dollar bonuses. Think on what you have done to the people of Iceland.

TOKYO, Japan - There’s nothing like buzz to get your product selling, especially in Tokyo.

The Japanese love what’s hot, hip and new. Microsoft, launching Windows 7 after a troubled reception here for Vista, decided to pair up with Burger King for some cross promotion.

Burger King, for its part, could use some buzz itself. The king of whoppers has a fraction of the market share and revenue that McDonald’s boasts. McDonald’s, in the recession and slow recovery in Japan, has seen record profit levels as frugal diners lean to the US$1 menu.

Hence, the Windows 7 Whopper was born. It’s really just a whopper with seven patties. Yes, 7.

For one week, the Windows 7 Whopper is available at all of Japan’s Burger Kings for the low price of 777 yen, equivalent to about US$9.

That’s a heck of a deal for beef in Japan, which is usually much more expensive. But like any good promotion, only a limited few get to partake of the gut bomb.

Every day this week, the first 30 diners at every Burger King gets the deal. After that, you have to pay double for the Windows 7 Whopper.

In the Kanda neighborhood in Tokyo, the manager tells me the first 30 burgers sold out in two hours. But I still managed to meet two guys who decided to pay double just to partake of the promotional event. They ate, and ate, and ate. One man finished - the other cried uncle.

I couldn’t resist: I had to try it. I ate, and ate, and ate. I found out mid-monster-burger that I’d be eating approximately 2100 calories, more than I usually eat in one full day. I’ve won hot dog and ice cream eating contests, but this looked like a task too tough to finish. But as my cameraman disparaged my eating abilities, I trudged on and polished it off.

Will the publicity stunt work? Hard to say. The buzz got our cameras there and my guard down long enough to eat one monster burger. But as Microsoft’s much hyped Vista proved, there has to be follow through for buzz to translate into customer satisfaction.

SEOUL, South Korea - One look at young fashion designer Ha Sang Beg and you know what he's about: Color, comfort and couture. But you have to talk to him before you understand what makes him different from his predecessors: His address.

Designer Ha Sang Beg hopes his designs will go global.

"I choose Korea as my headquarter," says Ha, his second language of English draped with a British lilt from his years studying in the UK. "I'm Korean and I feel comfortable in Korea. There is lot of merit in Korea."

He's not alone. Flip through the latest fashion magazines and you'll find a new breed of designers, who are attempting to make a global mark from Seoul.

"That's exciting to see," says Vogue Korea's Kwangho Shin. Shin says young talent used to leave Seoul and work from established fashion cities like London or New York. But this generation feels differently about their home country and the possibility of success from home.

"It concerns me as to how long it will last," says Shin. "Our challenge is digging up new talent and supporting their skills."

Seoul has focused on developing its automotive and high tech sector, and more recently, green technology. But fashion has been the forte of neighbors Tokyo and Hong Kong, who have more successfully built the business ties with the global fashion world. Shin says if Korea wants to keep up and coming talent like Beg at home, it needs to offer more.

Korea's government, trying to do that, named the fashion industry as one of the six new-growth power industries for the country, calling its goal the globalization of Seoul fashion. In this week's Seoul Fashion Week, the government worked with the industry to create not just a show, but a business event with the goal of becoming "World Fashion City, Seoul."

Ha hopes his government succeeds in building enough of an infrastructure to keep him busy at home. He predicts he's about to hit his global stride and hopes to take his country's image with him. "I'm still warming up, rather than going for it," he says. "My stage is warming up, just before running."

BEIJING, China - I hauled myself out of bed at 6 a.m. Sunday to set out for something I'd never done before–run a race in the Beijing marathon.

Jaime FlorCruz, far right, joins Zhang Lianqi, center, and another runner at the finish line.

I’ve been prepping for this day, on and off, for three months since I signed up to run 9.6K as part of the 2009 Beijing International Marathon, the full length of which is a little more than 42 kilometers.

My 58-year-old body seemed fit enough to run the distance, but I woke up with pinching pain on my left knee. For one brief moment, I thought that was a good reason to back out.

I decided to go and run. I had my muesli and banana, took a painkiller and proceeded to Tiananmen Square. Nearly 30,000 people, professionals and amateurs, had gathered there for the 29-year-old annual event. Foreigners paid $100 to register; Chinese paid 150 yuan ($22). Everyone gets a packet, including a runner's bag and bib, an official T-shirt and a certificate of participation.

At the starting line, some came in groups — high school and college students, factory workers, corporate employees, and members of runners’ club from various parts of China. Others came alone or with running buddies. Many joined to challenge themselves. Others, like the nine Chinese nuns from Henan province, run to support charity. Several runners wore distinctive T-shirts emblazoned with company logos ("Bimbo" Bread stands out) and uplifting message (the Obama slogan “Yes We Can” was eye-catching, if a bit tired).

I can too, I thought, as I jogged past Chairman Mao’s portrait soon after the start. Forty minutes and four kilometers later, however, my energy and enthusiasm started to flag. I puffed and winced, as I watched rabbit-like runners overtake me and deflated stragglers fall off behind me. Can I go on for five more Ks?

Just as I was losing confidence, I noticed an elderly man in red shirt, red shorts and blue sneakers, running just ahead of me. I sidled up and politely asked his age. "I’m 76,” he says, smiling.

Zhang Lianqi, it turns out, is a running aficionado. "I've been joining long-distance runs in Beijing since 1956," he recalls, keeping a slow but steady pace. “Once, I finished 37th.” He retired from his transistor-factory job 16 years ago but still jogs two to three kilometers three times a week.

That explains Zhang’s good form. "I've gained a bit of weight but I can still run," he quips. Along the way, he served as my mentor and inspiration. “Let’s not run in the middle of the street,” he suggests, so we avoid runners who are too fast or too slow. He took out two squares of chocolate from a yellow plastic bag and handed me one. “Don’t swallow, just let it melt in your mouth.” Soon, we passed 6K!

Impetuously, I picked up speed, inspired by periodic cheers ("Persistence means victory!") from onlookers and volunteers who’d lined the streets. “Pace yourself,” Zhang warned me. “Don’t run too fast.” Badly dehydrated, I fetched a bottle of water from a volunteer. “Don’t drink too much,” he says. “Just sip.” His most telling unsolicited advice involved attire. “Next time wear running shorts,” he admonished me. “Sweatpants drag you down.” Like a tour guide, he narrated a bit of history of Diaoyutai, as we ran past China's state guest house. He probably just wished to distract me. By the time he finished his spiel, we were only 600 meters away from our goal.

Literally shoulder to shoulder, we crossed the 9.6K finish line. As we posed for souvenir pictures and exchanged phone numbers, I felt especially exhilarated to have found in Mr. Zhang a running companion, a mentor and another Beijing friend. I am glad he pushed me to the finish line.