16 Oct. 2013

Come morning, Shanghai roars to life.  The horns from the busses, taxis, and cars merging at the intersection of Haining Lu and Henan Bei Lu make one constant hooooonnnnkkk!  Pollution begins to rise from the horizon up into the atmosphere.  Construction--the whine of the concrete saws, the zaps of welding, the teeth rattling sound of jack hammering, and the rumbling of big Japanese pavers--resumes.  As I head to work, crossing Qipu Lu, people intent on shopping push me aside, shouting to their friends or into their smart phones, stopping at the fruit stands for fresh-pressed pomegranate juice or cantaloupe on a stick.  Every other person drags a trolley laden with black plastic garbage bags, each one stuffed with cheap clothing and cheap shoes.  People eat as they walk and then toss their trash unceremoniously onto the street, scarcely caring if the vinegar from their dumplings ends up on your clothes.

When you live in a city that's, like, 90 times the size of your own, it's easy to think you'll never have a moment's peace again.  One thing that's great about my neighborhood in Shanghai is that after about 9 pm, the whole place shuts down.  Most of the stores on Qipu Lu are closed, the rumble of trolleys and the call of vendors silenced.  The streets are littered with the day's trash--skewers from street barbeque, half-full Styrofoam bowls of ramen noodles, watermelon rinds--but it's quiet.  Quieter than New York City, less quiet than Spokane.  There have been a few times when I walk home from the subway, from work, and I can actually hear crickets, softly chirping in the bushes.  It's past ten, and the sky is black, the surrounding buildings brightly lit, like stars.

My morning walks to the Bund have been like a renewal for me:  a reminder that yes, peace does exist in spite of Shanghai's chaos, that the water in the river still flows and that the lotus still blooms, even from the muck.

As if pulled by the same idea, I see couples taking their wedding photos there all the time.  Just two days ago, I saw nine different couples!  Other than the Catholic Church in Xujiahui , Waitan (the Mandarin word for the Bund), is the most popular spot in Shanghai for wedding pictures.  New beginnings.

I always see something interesting on my walks.  One morning I saw a man flying a kite, a black fish about five feet long, high up in the air.  Kite-flying is popular on the Bund, but this huge kite was the most amazing I've ever seen.

This morning, the interesting sights continued:  I saw four different groups of uniformed practitioners of martial arts.  The first group was in light pink, dancing slowly with their swords near the Monument to the Peoples’ Heroes.  It was all so beautiful that I paused on their stairs:  A breeze rippled the loose pink clothing, swirled the tassels on the hilts of each sword.  Seabirds glided over the Huangpu River; tourists walked by, some taking photos.  Each pose, each movement of the practitioners seemed Zen, unhurried, knowing that a consistent gentle push might be more persuasive than a hard shove.

Not wanting to disturb them, I did an about-face and descended the stairs.

Below the Bund is a small garden, twisting and turning paths woven into the trees.  There is even a small wooden bridge near a waterfall, with lotus and lilies blooming up from the ponds.  Latticework arcs overhead, woven with trailing vines and filtering the sunlight.  Classical Chinese zither music wafts from small portable radios.  Retired people are there every morning.  Some just sit, almost as if meditating or just allowing themselves to wake up.  Some do taijiquan or other light calisthenics.  Some stand and talk with one another, the men with wrists clasped behind their backs like old scholars, looking like they're trying to balance themselves between Confucius and Chairman Mao.

As I made my way through this garden, I could hear more music, flute this time, and spied two long lines of people practicing another form.  Tai chi?  Wushu?  Kung-fu?  I knew a lot of the names, but not enough about the forms to identify them quickly.  Their uniforms were white satin rather than pink, but they were just as graceful.  Carefully I edged around them, thankful they were without swords.

It's hard to believe that modern Chinese people still practice these ancient arts--thousands and thousands of years old--but it's still a part of them.  It makes me feel good to know that the Cultural Revolution wasn't able to take everything away. 

China seems to me to be a nation of survivors.  The battles between warlords in seemingly every dynasty; 60 years of invasions by the Mongols; World War II…I can understand why bamboo graces so much of Chinese art.  So strong it's used as scaffolding, Chinese bamboo can hold the weight of many men, but it can also bend in the slightest wind.  The Chinese talk about being descended from dragons, but sometimes I wonder if they didn't spring up out of the bamboo, ready to bend or to be strong, whatever the situation required. 

Unlike the first Americans, who took that bold step into the unknown--and escaped--the Chinese made a stand.  Perhaps, if they'd been living in Europe, surrounded by ocean in many cases, taking a boat far away would've made more sense.  Or perhaps they chose to stay.  I don't know enough about China or Chinese history to make a real guess.  I think both histories, in spite of their differences, should be revered, though.  It takes just as much bravery to start over as it does to stay; to try something new as it does to keep going through the daily grind.

I thought about how China had survived so much.  I thought about how America, in its own short history, had survived what it has so far.  Maybe both countries are made of survivors.  Perhaps stubbornly, perhaps foolishly, human beings just keep on going.

The Daily Show

No, not the show with Jon Stewart (although it's awesome!)--and please don't sue me for using the catchy name as a title for this blog post.

I'm going to talk a little about my daily life here in Shanghai so far.

My favorite thing to do is pull back the drapes over my west-facing window in my studio.  There is black-out plastic velcroed to the other side.  Sometimes I like to say (like Robin Williams), "Good morning, Shanghai!"  I'm trying my best to drop the "shang" with a western twang in my pronunciation.  It's pronounced "Shong-hai" by the locals.

I look 20 floors down to Haining Lu (lu means road) at the traffic going east and west.  Even at this height, with concrete walls, I can hear the horns, the street sweeper, the slightly mournful "duh-duh-duh-DUH!" music of the water truck spraying the shrubs and trees along the street.

There is a construction site to the west that my window faces, and I hope they don't build some high-rise that blocks my view entirely, but I'm sure that's the plan.  Right now it's fun to watch some guy hose down the concrete foundation as it cures, or to see people welding without much protective gear, or to see the workers' children playing basketball with a makeshift hoop--it's not like American suburbia, where every kid has a basketball hoop in the driveway.  They look like little ants from 20 floors up, industrious and inspiring.

There is what seems to be a bus depot to the west of my subway exit--lots of those around this area, so close to the Bund, a major tourist attraction and about 25 minutes from my apartment.  The Bund will usually be very breezy, the major attraction for me on my morning walks, and swarming with tourists (mostly Chinese).  Aside from the breeze, my favorite part of walking to the Bund is the little wooden path along the Wusong River and seeing all the blessed dragonflies--angels in my eyes, busily eating mosquitoes. 

Like many of the worksites here, mine is located in a mall.  There is a Walmart across the street.

The Walmart in China is three floors of dollar store-type merchandise.  The food area is much more expansive and includes a deli about twice the size of a Walmart Superstore at home.  Every grocery store has a weigh station for produce--someone weighs your stuff and puts a price sticker on it, as there are no scales at checkout.  There is no pharmacy in Walmart here--those are separate.  There is no electronics department, either.  It is basically Walmart in name only--it doesn't even look like Walmart when you go inside.  I've only been there once.  I'm not really a big Walmart supporter, anyway.

The school where I work is on the ninth floor.  The ninth floor bathroom is shared by my worksite and every other business on the ninth floor--needless to say, it can get a little gross.  There is at least soap (not that everyone uses it, not even the local chefs or wait staff that also use the facility).  There are ashtrays in the stalls which are used occasionally, but there is no toilet paper and there are no paper towels.  Ah, well.  Soap is good, and in my opinion, the most important part.

On my way back to my worksite I'm overwhelmed with the mall's soundtrack--three or four songs on repeat over the loudspeaker.  Yep, the same songs all the time.  One of the teachers has been here for six months and says they never change the music.  Sometimes we can even here it in the teacher's office, at least 50 feet from the entrance, blaring in the hallway.  It plays in the bathroom, and on every floor.  There is no escape from the music.

To the left is Haoledi ("howl-e-day", I want to say, but it's actually the pinyin spelling of "Holiday", at KTV or karaoke place).  The staff is fully suited up; young men with vests, the whole bit, wait for customers and pick their noses with long fingernails.  A mirror ball sprinkles colored light on the right of the entrance.  Haoledi is pretty popular, with everyone from families to slightly intoxicated Asian businessmen.

On B1 is a great little grocery store and a sort of food court.  Going to Pizza Hut here means a sit-down restaurant with hostesses and wait staff.  There is nice decor and mambo music playing in the background.  I had a pizza there once, and grabbed an Elle magazine (all in Mandarin, of course), featuring full color, glossy card stock ads for beauty products--five pages each.  There was also a pull-out catalog of Cartier diamond engagement rings.  I found it hard to believe that America, a capitalist nation, did not have the same things in its version of Elle, while a so-called Communist country did.  Interesting.  The malls, the huge magazine ads--Mao must be rolling over in his grave.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Tiantong Road (Line 10) is the closest metro stop to my apartment.  It's very Chinese.  The exit spits you out with sudden force into an older, run-down shopping mall.  The shops are small, squeezed together, with names in Chinese and/or English.  It's not like a mall at home--pretty much all they sell here is clothing and shoes.

When you get to street level there are two KFCs (but be prepared for no biscuits and tons of mayo on everything).  There's also a Fresh Lemon (possibly a Happy Lemon off-shoot)--they make mango smoothies to die for (only 10 yuan, or about $1.70), iced tea, and all sorts of refreshing hot weather drinks.  There are lots of little noodle stands with your choice of chopped onions, cabbage, whatever.  There are stands selling mini-dumplings in small round bamboo steamers and Japanese fried balls with chopped octopus tentacles inside.  The food looks pretty good--I was told to keep an eye on who stays in the same spot for more than two weeks--it usually means their food is pretty tasty and won't make you sick.  Granite tables in some areas indicate longevity to me.

People shove here.  You've got to be moved, or move out of the way.  Thank God for my time in New York for preparing me for this; however, New Yorkers would be very offended, because in NYC the shoving is at least accompanied by "Sorry" or "Excuse me".  Not in China.  If I shove, too, no one really minds--being one in a billion is something they all understand.  People do not step aside to let you onto the train or off of the train--it's pandemonium.  You have to push if you want off or on, period.  It's every man, woman, or child for him-/her-/itself, but there's no malice in the pushing, I feel.  I feel thankful that my schedule helps me to avoid the worst of the commuter traffic.

In spite of this densely populated place, the high rises going on past either horizon and the random strangers I rub thighs or arms with on the metro and never see again--it's like being in the desert.  There is quiet never, but it's easy to tune out, because I understand less than 1% of what's being said.

 Every day on the way to the metro to go to work, I see people pushing their meat skewers, their handbags ("Lady, you want bag?"), their household cleaning products, their sea monkeys, their wind-up plastic soldiers slithering on the ground, rifles in hand.  There is an old man who lies on his stomach with his head covered, begging.  There is an old woman with swollen ankles, stringy gray hair, and a beaming smile, begging.  There is a woman with short hair, maybe my age, missing an arm, begging.  Like everyone here, they are pushing to be recognized. 

For too long, China's been off the world grid.  They've existed, but America's been too focused on Afghanistan or North Korea to pay attention.  The oldest manhole cover I've seen in Shanghai is from 2005.  That means most of their development--new metro lines, skyscrapers, a lot of the fancy buildings in Pudong across the Huangpu River--has shot up within the last decade.  We owe China over a trillion dollars (http://finance.townhall.com/columnists/politicalcalculations/2012/09/18/summer_2012 _to_whom_does_the_us_government_owe_money).  In my opinion, it would behoove America to learn a bit more about this country.  Just sayin'.