Spa Day

I was naked.

 

Without a stitch on, as they say.

 

As a blue jay, as the day I was born.

 

I stood next to the locker I’d just closed and, with my left hand, briefly clutched the plastic bracelet around my right wrist like it was a talisman.  The locker could be reopened by swiping the bracelet over the magnetic panel on the locker door.  I had a brief, ridiculous desire to re-open the locker and put my clothes back on.

 

Somehow I’d had two minutes to myself in this row of lockers to get undressed and mentally prepared.

 

For the staring.

 

Due to the fact that Gokurakuyu Japanese Bathhouse was way out in Pudong (or “Pu-Jersey”, as I liked to call it), I was the only non-Asian in the entire facility.  Constantly being stared at has been part of my overseas adventures since I was 10 years old, and now that I was buck-a*& nekkid, I was certainly glad no one would be able to carry their cell phones (with camera) into the spa.

 

Or would they?

 

I took a deep breath and straightened my spine.  This wasn’t my first bathhouse experience, I reminded myself.  I’d gone with some classmates to a Turkish bath while studying in Greece.

 

So this trip would be my second.

 

I walked out of the bank of lockers.  I passed a few women about my age or younger.  They were clad in pink and yellow floral p.j.s, on lend from the spa.  They were deep in conversation, cheeks flushed and giggling, hands fluttering like birds.  There was not one flicker of an eyelid my way.

 

Whew.  So far so good.

 

As I approached the carpeted and towel-layered stairs up to the baths, I spotted an old lady.  Her hair was gray, thin, and short, plastered wetly to her skull, her pink scalp showing through in places.  Her spine was slightly bent from osteoporosis; I doubt she’d have stood higher than my shoulder.  She was dabbing at her age-spotted skin with a towel.  Her eyes moved over to me—here it comes—moved away, and she continued about her business.

 

Wow.

 

The glass doors at the top of the stairs whispered apart as I approached.  I stepped onto the wet stone floor.  There were at least 40 women in various baths, and I gathered myself for the staring of at least one of them.

 

Nothing.

 

To my left was a row of tubs, each one deep and short (but about long enough for me).  With their cement and hollow steel handrails, they looked like tanks used to water cattle.  I quickly found one that was empty, with unoccupied tubs on either side.

 

I let myself sink into the gloriously hot, slightly bubbling water, dangling my painted toes out the other end.

 

Aaahhh.

 

I closed my eyes, breathing relief.

 

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The journey here had been somewhat arduous.  I still underestimate the size of Shanghai—a map never does it justice.  It had appeared that the spa was in walking distance of the subway.  I expected to walk 10-15 minutes.  Unfortunately, there was massive construction happening along the main road.  Road signs were missing, or few and far between.  Pudong was not Puxi (my side of the river, the older part of Shanghai and more tourist-friendly).  I probably ended up walking around in circles, passing Muslim noodle shops and run down caves where you could get a haircut for under five dollars.  The construction overflow made piles of rubble, including glass and nails, as well as puddles that I had to skirt around.

 

After 20-30 minutes I gave in.  I had no idea where I was or which direction I needed to go, even with the map app on my smart phone.  I went to a busier street and flagged down a cab.  Luckily I’d printed directions to the spa in Chinese.  The cab ride was less than 10 minutes, but it was worth it.

 

The contrast inside the spa was startling.  The floors were pristinely clean, partly because you were asked to remove your shoes immediately.  The lobby was filled with small, pleasant ponds and plenty of comfy chairs.  Soft Japanese music—flute and harp, slow and tranquil—floated over my head like cherry blossoms.

 

The woman renting out pajamas was unable to explain anything to me in English, so we had a bit of an issue.  I had to get the pajamas from her, then go to another desk to get my bracelet (which I could scan for food or spa treatments, rather than carrying paper money), and then go into the locker room to change.  We figured it out, though.

 

Everything was pristinely clean.  Along with the p.j.s were disposable slippers, and the toilets had about 20 buttons.  There was plenty of t.p. and soap, and even small bottles of “seat disinfecting spray” in each stall.

 

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A small section of baths (shallow, natural-looking pools) were outside, and I sat in the warm water, sinking my butt to the stones and leaning my back into the sunlight-warmed rocks behind me.  I had this area to myself.  Many Asian women are extremely fond of white skin.  They carry umbrellas in all weather to keep their skin spotless.  (My freckles must freak them out.)  They buy expensive whitening creams.  Sunscreen costs double or triple what it does at home.  And they certainly won’t sit in the sun.  But for me, sitting in my birthday suit in semi-privacy, in the hot water while sunshine cloaked my shoulders, was a fabulous novelty.  I had no qualms about adding to my freckle count.  Japanese music sank into me, relaxing my back and slowing my mind.

 

As I begun to realize that there’d be no staring, I happily immersed myself in hot pool after hot pool; a “milk bath” (actually tiny bubbles, lending the water a milky appearance); a super-hot bath, a warm bath, the stock tub baths.  There were old ladies and girls under 10; there were a few plump ladies, but mostly thin ones—the Asian frame tends to be quite petite.  Every size, every shape of lady was here, and although there was not the German “here’s my fat butt” attitude, I didn’t get the sense that there was anything Puritanical about the place, either.  No one seemed self-conscious.

 

There was a room where I gave myself a salt scrub, and a back area where I had my first seaweed wrap for 60 RMB (about 10 bucks).  The lady tried to tell me to sit on the table five times without miming it clearly, speaking louder each time, until I finally understood her.  After being coated with the blue-green stuff (like a clay mask), I was wrapped in a huge sheet of saran wrap. 

 

The room was hot and steamy.  My whole body throbbed and sweated as I stared at the ceiling or closed my eyes.  I think I almost fell asleep once.  I must’ve waited 30 minutes for the woman to come back.  The suspense was killing me, but I was also oddly relaxed.

 

After the baths and the wraps, I was warm and calm.  I’d been chugging water (as many signs around the spa recommended), and now it was relaxation room time.  I got some cookies and xiguazhi (watermelon juice) by scanning my bracelet (“Your money’s no good here,” I wanted to joke to someone).  I draped myself over a leather lounger—just like the 100 other men and women in the room.  Some were chatting quietly, some watching TV, some sleeping—one guy was even snoring, and I tried not to laugh as he snorted from time to time.

 

I had some ramen at the restaurant later, with a small bottle of sake, and felt pleasantly snug, serene, and perhaps even a bit Japanese.

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.

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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'.