I need to get out more. I really do, and today proved it. Of course I go out every day, but usually in the general direction of Huaihai Lu and Xintiandi, with its fashionable shops and restaurants, its happening hoi polloi. But today I decided to walk in the opposite direction. I was standing in my living room looking at a new skyscraper I like to call 'The Deodorant Stick' because of its rectangular shape and rounded green cap. It looks like a sixty story Speed Stick, seriously, and it's over across Zhao Jia Bang Lu in no-man's land. For some reason there is a sort of mental barrier (for me anyway) at Zhao Jia Bang Lu, and I have rarely crossed that road. I'm not sure why, except it's a big highway, and nothing has ever called me in that direction - no restaurant, party, store, or event. And yet I look over there every day, marveling at the high rise canyons with their fantastic shapes, colors, and designs (Spanish Art Deco Rococo anyone?)
It being the middle of Spring Festival now, most of the shops are still closed and very few people are working. Add some fantastic weather - warm, sunny, and balmy - and you have the makings of one big, happy Spring Festival love-in. I've never seen the people so relaxed and happy. Everyone is walking around in their best gear, smiling, laughing, spitting, yelling, and generally having a ball. This morning on Danshui Lu the usual card game had moved across to the sunny side of the street - a first. As I walked by I heard the usual deep guttural hocking up of unwanted phlegm, and looking down I saw a loosely defined, but definitely discernible semi-circle of spit that outlined three sides of the card table and its (two rows deep) ring of onlookers. I don't want to go on too much about the spitting because it's been beaten to death; my Chinese friends will probably give me a hard time about it, but if they are being honest with themselves they will be forced to admit loud hocking and spitting is common practice in Shanghai. It's funny, when I ask people about it I always get the same answer: if it's local people they will say "Those are country people, not Shanghainese people who spit" as they turn up their nose. Conversely, anyone from out of town will tell me, with a weary, disgusted look, "Shanghainese are nasty...people don't spit like that in X Province". So then nobody you talk to actually spits or approves of it. So naturally it must never happen, right? Welcome to China.
I'm all for cultural differences. I'm also for people expressing their ideas about those differences. I have long held the notion that if you want to travel the world you better get into the practice of embracing differences rather than criticizing them. For example, if I sat in a restaurant in Bangkok and picked my teeth without covering up, Thai people would be absolutely scandalised by my bad manners. They would have every right to go write in their blogs about it, too. But you can't be too one-sided. So while public spitting is universally reviled in the West (does The Bronx count?) it seems, like it or not my friends, perfectly acceptable in Shanghai. I've accepted it for the most part; I'm a bit of a sneaky old spitter myself, if I'm being totally honest. You know, the casual side of the mouth stealth style.
Anyway it was a glorious day, and as I was walking up Danshui Lu I decided, what the hell, let's just take a walk over into no-man's land and see what it looks like over by the Speedstick. One of the first things I noticed once I go to the other side was, it looks just like my side. Possibly less foreigners, but then unless I'm around Xintiandi I don't see many 'laowai' in my 'hood anyway. What I did notice was lots of 'sunday best' looking older guys squiring around much younger girls. Now, I've lived here long enough to know that they aren't their daughters either. This is the land of the KTV (karaoke television), and any self respecting guy with a bit of dough will get his main dose of entertainment there. It's actually an Asia-wide phenomenon, and it just goes by different names in each country (in Thailand they're called massage parlors). The official story is that guys go in there to relax and have a few drinks. Drinks being poured by very young girls, who for a fee will smile and flirt and laugh at their corny jokes (being on the payroll). Naturally This mixture of birds, bees, whiskey, and commerce can only end up one way (one way or the other) and so Thai cops, Japanese salary men, and Chinese Big Heart Players end up keeping these young cuties as girlfriends on the side. Big Heart Players you ask? Well I didn't make it up (although I wish I did). A few months ago, in a meeting with a major liquor brand we were working with, I was asked to come up with an idea for a party promotion that involved the color red, pretty girls (invariably), and their liquor brand. Lazily (I was dead bored) I flicked off something like 'Cupid's Revenge' or 'Get REDy' to a row of blank stares. OK, so I admit those are pretty lame, but imagine my shock (and glee) when they announced that we would stick with their national campaign: a super suave Chinese guy in a red tux holding the bottle of brand X with the tag line, 'Who is the big heart player?' Sort of like a national beefcake pageant, with different heats, playoffs, and finally a Big Heart Player champion.
I instantly started wondering, what does it take to be a Big Heart Player? Can I be one? Is it based solely on looks, or do other attributes come into play? After a solid couple months of asking around, taking notes, and generally observing Chinese culture, I have come to the conclusion that the real Big Heart Players are basically the guys I saw today squiring around their mistresses in the false Spring weather. Number one attribute? He has money. At least enough to buy drinks, eat in the private rooms of restaurants, and afford a honey or two on the side. After that everything else is an afterthought, because money rules without shame or ridicule in Shanghai, and so being a nice guy, or a good dresser, or even handsome will always lose out to having dough here. So even though the Big Heart Player poster boy was a handsome boyish fellow, I know what he really looks like: middle aged, chain smoking, boorish, and usually wearing a uniform that consists of (1) charcoal or black zip up sweater, (1) black suit of questionable cut and make, (1) bad haircut, possibly a buzz cut. You think I'm joking but these guys rule the world here. In night clubs where I've DJ'd they are sat happily on a Saturday night flagging inattentive waiters, barking orders for more champagne amidst a giggling gaggle of young chicks. Ordering champagne is always a big heart play here in Shanghai, and the stuff basically flows like a river. I've never seen so much champagne drunk anywhere in the world, and I've been to a few places. Just to let the whole bar know you're laying out plenty of Yuan for the bubbly they stick a sparkler the size of a roman candle in the bucket as they deliver it to your table. After that it's basically a 'swinging dick' comedy, with the bar being the ultimate winner as far as I can see. If one table orders champagne it's not at all uncommon to see the guy on the next table look longingly (often at the urging of the pretty young things) and snap his fingers (yes, they still do that here) and order two bottles damn it!
There are naturally different levels of Big Heart Playerdom - everything from a high ranking communist party member on down to a common laborer. The fat cat might own a few condos that he deposits his chicks in (just like the bank), while the laborer might save up his weekly pile of dirty bills for a night out treating his favorite girl from the neighborhood pink house (dodgy barber shop) to dinner at the local greasy spoon. But no matter what, they will both have to part with cash or there's no deal. I have seen sixty year old guys in Hip Hop clubs drinking whiskey in a private booth, looking vaguely bored, and surrounded by four or five extremely young, cute KTV girls, all dancing away and eyeballing (but never touching) younger guys. This guy is a serious BHP, because everyone in the club knows that even though he's an old shocker with a mug only a mother could love, he is taking these girls with him. He's paid for the privilege. On the other side of the scale I've seen a day worker gaily cruising down the street on an old bicycle with a chubby girl sitting side-saddle on the back - cigarette clamped between his teeth, screaming some no doubt charming anecdote to his young lovely as she laughs and smacks him on the back. An irascible rogue if ever there was one!
So there I was today, walking around hands in pockets, sunglasses on, taking it all in and loving every minute of it. The pictures are indelible. The guy on the bright red scooter with the orange (every bit of it) double breasted suit on. What style...what a cut! The color was somewhere between a basketball and a tangerine, and featured big boxy lapels flapping in the breeze. He finished this sartorial masterpiece off with white socks and black loafer-slippers. This devil may care fellow really had it going on; on the back of his scooter was a girl half his age wearing an electric green dress, yellow sunglasses, and pink heels. Well it was Sunday. Walking by the Hecto Coffee Shop on Xieto Lu I saw another BHP in the usual grey on black motif, who was performing an impressive feat (at least to my eyes) by simultaneously eating and holding chopsticks with his right hand, smoking with his left, and allowing a young nymph to pour beer down his greasy gullet. I don't care what anyone says, that's a big heart play.
And so I'll close this now...alas, the light is fading. What a wonderful day I had walking around Shanghai today, and with the promise of more to come. The weather is getting warmer, and that's sure to bring the big heart out in every one, maybe even me. Who knows? I can see myself in one of those zipper sweaters now, with a flat top cut and a scooter. You know what they say - when in Rome.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Gong Xi Fa Cai
Gong Xi Fa Cai! Happy New Year!
Today starts the year of the pig in China. So long to the dog, it's old news now. All the dog people can stop wearing their red underwear now. They had their year. Ring in the pig!
So that's two animals I will have gotten through during my time in China, and I've been wondering today how many more I will see come and go before I move on. I wonder if I will be here long enough to see my own year (tiger) come around in 2010? It would be worth it just for all the red underwear gags - and I would wear them too. Yes, the Chinese believe it's lucky to wear red underwear all year during your birth year, and in Shanghai all you have to do is look up into a flapping laundry line on any street to see that it's not some old wives tale. There's no shortage of bright red undies.
Of course anything red is lucky at any time here, so it helps that I'm a bit of a shoe horse (is that a term? A guy who owns lots of shoes?) Anyway, I have at least three pairs of red sneakers, and I get compliments on them every time out from the locals. "I like your shoes" they will announce automatically, as if in a trance; it's learned behavior. Red is lucky, so therefore my sneakers are lucky too. I also have a nice red sheets and duvet cover set, but that's another story completely.
The past few days I have been walking around Shanghai breathing in the excitement and anticipation that's in the air. Markets that are normally crowded to claustrophobic levels are even more crowded, as everyone hustles to get gifts and provisions for the coming two weeks. That's right, everyone gets two whole weeks off. And they get another week in May, and once again in October for the Mooncake Festival. Yes, the Chinese get a lot of time off work (but don't tell the French, that could easily set off a spate of bourgeois rioting). I'm not complaining. I am in Shanghai for Chinese New year, and it's worth the other eleven and a half months of street showdowns and little defeats. Suddenly people aren't honking as much, (but of course they haven't stopped honking completely, that would be cause for alarm), and they seem to be moving a bit slower, even as they get on with their holiday rituals - buying fruit, dried fish and poultry, small gifts and red envelopes (for the kids, who all get cash), and of course beijiu, the atomic "wine" that smells like a mixture of rotten fruit and airplane glue. Of course maybe that's why they're moving a bit slower lately - that stuff will bring you down just as fast as it takes you up.
Oh, and it's like World War III outside, lest we forget who invented gunpowder. The fire crackers, rockets, and bombs started a few days ago in fits and spurts, building slowly in intensity, until tonight's crescendo. This morning I was jolted out of a sound sleep by what I can only describe as something sounding like a building collapsing, or possibly a nuclear test. Cracking open a startled eye, my initial thought was 'they're working on Chinese New year?' Since old buildings go down all the time it wasn't a stretch. But no, it was just a few kids having a bit of fun in the school yard across the road - lighting off a few grenades before breakfast.
As I went down to the beloved C-Store I ran into my neighbor from across the hallway - she of the perma-scowl and nary a good word (or any word, at least not to me). "Ni hao" she said, sweet as could be, and then smiled at me as I tried to hide my surprise. Were my ears playing tricks? Chuckling good naturedly, she then hit me with a broadside. "Gong Xi Fa Cai" she fairly sang out, stunning me anew. And finally the death blow; "That means happy new year in Chinese" she said, humming away, and handed me a tangerine wrapped in clear plastic before she turned the corner to her apartment. And this from a woman who has never uttered a word to me in ten months, much less in English. It made me wonder, is it me who's been unfriendly for ten months?
Down on the street it's an odd mixture of ghost town and war games. Most of the shops are shut, and there's far less foot and motorized traffic, but as soon as you start to enjoy it someone lights off a rug of firecrackers right next to you. It's unnerving. The first few days I was walking around like a cat on a hot tin roof, but now I've gotten into the spirit of it. I admit a well placed cherry bomb sent me ducking into the C-Store earlier today. I tried to play it off like I was just sort of swooping cavalierly into the shop, but the girl behind the counter saw me and heard the bomb go off and started snickering, but then gave me a conspiratorial, world weary nod. I'm her regular customer after all.
After a long dim sum feast in the afternoon I took a walk around the neighborhood to get a feel for the building excitement. The atmosphere was changing by the moment. By about 3 pm the noise started to be regular: Bang! Boom! Rat Tat Tat! and various whistling noises that I can't recreate onomatopoeically. By six there were no longer intervals of silence between the explosions, and the landscape began to resemble a happy, rosy cheeked version of urban warfare, as young boys raced to and fro lighting off all manner of ordinance. It was at that point that I decided I would stay home and enjoy the festivities at midnight before calling it an early night. Since I live on the 31st floor and have excellent views on all sides, I figured I'd be in good shape, looking down on it all.
By around ten o'clock the sounds outside were not only regular, but getting very crowded. Layers of noise were being added by the minute, so that it became a thick aural blanket, drowning out all other street sounds, and punctuated regularly by building shaking explosions. I was watching Woody Allen's Bananas on DVD, and had to keep turning the volume up. Occasionally there would be an explosion so violent as to make me jump up from the couch and peer out into the ever-growing mayhem outside. I put my glasses on and could see people walking around in the street as rockets launched right by them. Taxis were casually driving around Persian carpets of firecrackers and disappearing in cumulus clouds of sulphuric smoke, only to reappear and let some customers out in the middle of it all. Everyone seemed happy and excited, and not a bit worried about getting an arm blown off.
Looking up at the clock as the movie ended I noticed it was 11:30 and I had the TV's volume almost all the way up; indeed the noise outside had recently ratcheted up to an unprecedented level. I went to make a pot of tea and from my kitchen window the building across from me looked like it was being hit with a strobe light. The fireworks were incessant now, and multi-leveled. People were lighting them from the courtyard, streets, apartments, middle of the road - anywhere and everywhere. I took my cuppa excitedly into the guest bedroom, since it's on the corner and has the most unobstructed views. Starting from about 11:45 until 12:15 I was treated to a display the likes of which I've never seen before. It dwarfed any Macy's Fourth of July I've ever witnessed. It was an entire city blowing up, incessantly, for half an hour.
The people downstairs from my building, on Danshui Lu, had set up a sort of makeshift launching pad area, and this served as the nerve center for our block. But every other block also had one. They never stopped setting off rockets once during that half hour, many of them actually reaching up higher than my building - but most of the big ones exploding right at my eye level, giving me the feeling of being inside the beautiful, multi-hued explosions. Bits of sizzling rockets were tinging off my windows, inches from my face. A few smashed against the side of my building before ricocheting off and exploding. It was intense. I got lost in it for a while and didn't realise when midnight had struck, only that the intensity of my dream got deeper. My forehead was pressed up against the window, the breath from my nose fogging the pane. I was gone...
Suddenly I was eleven years old and watching the Fourth of July fireworks in a football stadium, losing myself and all my budding adolescent problems in the explosions in the sky. I felt that confused loss of innocence again, as I remembered a time when I still had an excuse. What happened so long ago to that kid who played baseball fiercely and told tall tales - that boy with a many-hued imagination who dreamed a life that wasn't his? What happened that made him go another way while so many others went the straight route? All those mad years; losing himself in order to gain a life. Lost in the flying fire, I recalled, no re-lived, those feelings, and in my reverie I found myself asking: How did I get here? How did I make it to Hefei Lu in Shanghai, China on Chinese New Year watching fireworks from my apartment high above the city? What has guided my path here? How did I find the power to ever leave New York?
But here I am - from Chinatown to a town in China. Looking out at the electric black sky with its flashes and flames, I felt sure the answer is not in the knowing. The answer is in the accepting.
Today starts the year of the pig in China. So long to the dog, it's old news now. All the dog people can stop wearing their red underwear now. They had their year. Ring in the pig!
So that's two animals I will have gotten through during my time in China, and I've been wondering today how many more I will see come and go before I move on. I wonder if I will be here long enough to see my own year (tiger) come around in 2010? It would be worth it just for all the red underwear gags - and I would wear them too. Yes, the Chinese believe it's lucky to wear red underwear all year during your birth year, and in Shanghai all you have to do is look up into a flapping laundry line on any street to see that it's not some old wives tale. There's no shortage of bright red undies.
Of course anything red is lucky at any time here, so it helps that I'm a bit of a shoe horse (is that a term? A guy who owns lots of shoes?) Anyway, I have at least three pairs of red sneakers, and I get compliments on them every time out from the locals. "I like your shoes" they will announce automatically, as if in a trance; it's learned behavior. Red is lucky, so therefore my sneakers are lucky too. I also have a nice red sheets and duvet cover set, but that's another story completely.
The past few days I have been walking around Shanghai breathing in the excitement and anticipation that's in the air. Markets that are normally crowded to claustrophobic levels are even more crowded, as everyone hustles to get gifts and provisions for the coming two weeks. That's right, everyone gets two whole weeks off. And they get another week in May, and once again in October for the Mooncake Festival. Yes, the Chinese get a lot of time off work (but don't tell the French, that could easily set off a spate of bourgeois rioting). I'm not complaining. I am in Shanghai for Chinese New year, and it's worth the other eleven and a half months of street showdowns and little defeats. Suddenly people aren't honking as much, (but of course they haven't stopped honking completely, that would be cause for alarm), and they seem to be moving a bit slower, even as they get on with their holiday rituals - buying fruit, dried fish and poultry, small gifts and red envelopes (for the kids, who all get cash), and of course beijiu, the atomic "wine" that smells like a mixture of rotten fruit and airplane glue. Of course maybe that's why they're moving a bit slower lately - that stuff will bring you down just as fast as it takes you up.
Oh, and it's like World War III outside, lest we forget who invented gunpowder. The fire crackers, rockets, and bombs started a few days ago in fits and spurts, building slowly in intensity, until tonight's crescendo. This morning I was jolted out of a sound sleep by what I can only describe as something sounding like a building collapsing, or possibly a nuclear test. Cracking open a startled eye, my initial thought was 'they're working on Chinese New year?' Since old buildings go down all the time it wasn't a stretch. But no, it was just a few kids having a bit of fun in the school yard across the road - lighting off a few grenades before breakfast.
As I went down to the beloved C-Store I ran into my neighbor from across the hallway - she of the perma-scowl and nary a good word (or any word, at least not to me). "Ni hao" she said, sweet as could be, and then smiled at me as I tried to hide my surprise. Were my ears playing tricks? Chuckling good naturedly, she then hit me with a broadside. "Gong Xi Fa Cai" she fairly sang out, stunning me anew. And finally the death blow; "That means happy new year in Chinese" she said, humming away, and handed me a tangerine wrapped in clear plastic before she turned the corner to her apartment. And this from a woman who has never uttered a word to me in ten months, much less in English. It made me wonder, is it me who's been unfriendly for ten months?
Down on the street it's an odd mixture of ghost town and war games. Most of the shops are shut, and there's far less foot and motorized traffic, but as soon as you start to enjoy it someone lights off a rug of firecrackers right next to you. It's unnerving. The first few days I was walking around like a cat on a hot tin roof, but now I've gotten into the spirit of it. I admit a well placed cherry bomb sent me ducking into the C-Store earlier today. I tried to play it off like I was just sort of swooping cavalierly into the shop, but the girl behind the counter saw me and heard the bomb go off and started snickering, but then gave me a conspiratorial, world weary nod. I'm her regular customer after all.
After a long dim sum feast in the afternoon I took a walk around the neighborhood to get a feel for the building excitement. The atmosphere was changing by the moment. By about 3 pm the noise started to be regular: Bang! Boom! Rat Tat Tat! and various whistling noises that I can't recreate onomatopoeically. By six there were no longer intervals of silence between the explosions, and the landscape began to resemble a happy, rosy cheeked version of urban warfare, as young boys raced to and fro lighting off all manner of ordinance. It was at that point that I decided I would stay home and enjoy the festivities at midnight before calling it an early night. Since I live on the 31st floor and have excellent views on all sides, I figured I'd be in good shape, looking down on it all.
By around ten o'clock the sounds outside were not only regular, but getting very crowded. Layers of noise were being added by the minute, so that it became a thick aural blanket, drowning out all other street sounds, and punctuated regularly by building shaking explosions. I was watching Woody Allen's Bananas on DVD, and had to keep turning the volume up. Occasionally there would be an explosion so violent as to make me jump up from the couch and peer out into the ever-growing mayhem outside. I put my glasses on and could see people walking around in the street as rockets launched right by them. Taxis were casually driving around Persian carpets of firecrackers and disappearing in cumulus clouds of sulphuric smoke, only to reappear and let some customers out in the middle of it all. Everyone seemed happy and excited, and not a bit worried about getting an arm blown off.
Looking up at the clock as the movie ended I noticed it was 11:30 and I had the TV's volume almost all the way up; indeed the noise outside had recently ratcheted up to an unprecedented level. I went to make a pot of tea and from my kitchen window the building across from me looked like it was being hit with a strobe light. The fireworks were incessant now, and multi-leveled. People were lighting them from the courtyard, streets, apartments, middle of the road - anywhere and everywhere. I took my cuppa excitedly into the guest bedroom, since it's on the corner and has the most unobstructed views. Starting from about 11:45 until 12:15 I was treated to a display the likes of which I've never seen before. It dwarfed any Macy's Fourth of July I've ever witnessed. It was an entire city blowing up, incessantly, for half an hour.
The people downstairs from my building, on Danshui Lu, had set up a sort of makeshift launching pad area, and this served as the nerve center for our block. But every other block also had one. They never stopped setting off rockets once during that half hour, many of them actually reaching up higher than my building - but most of the big ones exploding right at my eye level, giving me the feeling of being inside the beautiful, multi-hued explosions. Bits of sizzling rockets were tinging off my windows, inches from my face. A few smashed against the side of my building before ricocheting off and exploding. It was intense. I got lost in it for a while and didn't realise when midnight had struck, only that the intensity of my dream got deeper. My forehead was pressed up against the window, the breath from my nose fogging the pane. I was gone...
Suddenly I was eleven years old and watching the Fourth of July fireworks in a football stadium, losing myself and all my budding adolescent problems in the explosions in the sky. I felt that confused loss of innocence again, as I remembered a time when I still had an excuse. What happened so long ago to that kid who played baseball fiercely and told tall tales - that boy with a many-hued imagination who dreamed a life that wasn't his? What happened that made him go another way while so many others went the straight route? All those mad years; losing himself in order to gain a life. Lost in the flying fire, I recalled, no re-lived, those feelings, and in my reverie I found myself asking: How did I get here? How did I make it to Hefei Lu in Shanghai, China on Chinese New Year watching fireworks from my apartment high above the city? What has guided my path here? How did I find the power to ever leave New York?
But here I am - from Chinatown to a town in China. Looking out at the electric black sky with its flashes and flames, I felt sure the answer is not in the knowing. The answer is in the accepting.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Memories
It's Valentine's Day here in Shanghai, and it's absolute murder trying to get a taxi. Of course that's also because it's right on the cusp of Chinese New years, and there are A) more people trying to get them, and B) less people driving them. So I thought I would just stay home today and write something about Valentine's Day. Not that I'm a huge fan of this day mind you, but then again I have nothing against it either. I can honestly say that I've been single for almost every Valentine's Day of my life, and yet I could never understand all the morbid single people sitting at home eyeing the razor blades and cyanide because they had no sweetheart on Valentine's Day. Does this mean I am not a romantic? I'm not so sure.
Upon reflection, I think one thing that surely makes you 'a romantic' is how much you dwell on memories. I dwell on them all the time. I love my memories. Conveniently, the human brain has a lovely mechanism for softening all the rough edges of our memories. Things I did even three years ago that were absolutely mediocre at the time now seem like great events. DJ tours I cobbled together on small budgets that were tough on me (and my back - carrying around heavy record bags) now seem epic. Yeah, remember the time we went to Poland and played in Krakow and Warsaw and slept on the promoter's couch and spent the rest of the time in the car? Remember all the bad food (I'm pretty much veggie, and we're talking Poland)? Remember the Krakow gig with maybe a hundred chain smoking students? But it's never like that. Instead I look back on the few snapshots I took and it feels more like the Beatles at The Hollywood Bowl or something. Memories do that to you. Time does too.
So I've been going through an old photo album today. Well not just any photo album, but me and my ex-girlfriend's photo album - something I haven't been able to look at since we split up around six months ago. I just couldn't face it until today. But then I thought, it's Valentine's Day and I wonder what she's doing now? So rather than go down that slippery slope of shame and regret, I thought I'd just open the damned thing up and face my demons - and write something too, of course. You know what? It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. A little bit sad, of course, especially when I see how happy we look in those pics; jauntily posing at the beach, amidst the ruffled bedsheets of the seaside hotel, peering over some rare flowers in a misty mountain park. But more than sadness, an old familiar feeling crept in as I looked at these moments frozen in time. I felt nostalgic. Yes, memories and their magic have done it again. A small smile curled the corners of my mouth as I retraced those steps in Singapore, and recalled that restaurant in Vietnam with the amazing tamarind crabs.
As I mentioned, I've been alone most Valentine's Days in my life, but for a few years recently I was not. I bought flowers and presents and had nice dinners with my ex, but I'm not sure that makes me a romantic either. After all, flowers and candy are nice, but nobody remembers them. Where we went for dinner, the table we sat at, how her hair fell across her eyes as she glittered and shone with excitement at my small gift. These I remember like they were yesterday. And looking through our old pictures I again remember sandy sarongs and beach burials; scenic overpasses and warmth beneath covers on chilly nights in rustic cabins. But the inevitable tiffs and misunderstandings I can't recall now. Memory has deleted them. The boring times when we both felt the need to get away is absent now, but surely it was there then. This picture of us sitting back to back on the beach; I look so happy. Surely I must have been, but was I thinking about the Red Sox at that moment, or of some work related hassle? Was she wondering about her new job, or whether or not to buy those new boots? Or worse, was she wondering how she ever got into this situation with me? Memory tells me we were very happy there at that beach, but it's hard to know.
I think I am 'a romantic', but not necessarily a romantic person. I never cared about flowers or presents until there was someone who meant something to me, and then I just wanted to make her happy all the time. It wasn't about the chocolates, and it's not about Valentine's Day; it's about really caring about someone and realizing that these things will make her happy. So I'm not sitting at home slitting my wrists today because it's Valentine's Day and I have no significant other. I'm looking over the past and realising that I will always remember it fondly, despite anger, heartbreak, resentment, or sadness. I will remind myself from time to time through a few snatched photos that I will occasionally look at. And it will always make me smile and feel warm inside, as it did today. And so I guess I really am just an old romantic.
Upon reflection, I think one thing that surely makes you 'a romantic' is how much you dwell on memories. I dwell on them all the time. I love my memories. Conveniently, the human brain has a lovely mechanism for softening all the rough edges of our memories. Things I did even three years ago that were absolutely mediocre at the time now seem like great events. DJ tours I cobbled together on small budgets that were tough on me (and my back - carrying around heavy record bags) now seem epic. Yeah, remember the time we went to Poland and played in Krakow and Warsaw and slept on the promoter's couch and spent the rest of the time in the car? Remember all the bad food (I'm pretty much veggie, and we're talking Poland)? Remember the Krakow gig with maybe a hundred chain smoking students? But it's never like that. Instead I look back on the few snapshots I took and it feels more like the Beatles at The Hollywood Bowl or something. Memories do that to you. Time does too.
So I've been going through an old photo album today. Well not just any photo album, but me and my ex-girlfriend's photo album - something I haven't been able to look at since we split up around six months ago. I just couldn't face it until today. But then I thought, it's Valentine's Day and I wonder what she's doing now? So rather than go down that slippery slope of shame and regret, I thought I'd just open the damned thing up and face my demons - and write something too, of course. You know what? It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. A little bit sad, of course, especially when I see how happy we look in those pics; jauntily posing at the beach, amidst the ruffled bedsheets of the seaside hotel, peering over some rare flowers in a misty mountain park. But more than sadness, an old familiar feeling crept in as I looked at these moments frozen in time. I felt nostalgic. Yes, memories and their magic have done it again. A small smile curled the corners of my mouth as I retraced those steps in Singapore, and recalled that restaurant in Vietnam with the amazing tamarind crabs.
As I mentioned, I've been alone most Valentine's Days in my life, but for a few years recently I was not. I bought flowers and presents and had nice dinners with my ex, but I'm not sure that makes me a romantic either. After all, flowers and candy are nice, but nobody remembers them. Where we went for dinner, the table we sat at, how her hair fell across her eyes as she glittered and shone with excitement at my small gift. These I remember like they were yesterday. And looking through our old pictures I again remember sandy sarongs and beach burials; scenic overpasses and warmth beneath covers on chilly nights in rustic cabins. But the inevitable tiffs and misunderstandings I can't recall now. Memory has deleted them. The boring times when we both felt the need to get away is absent now, but surely it was there then. This picture of us sitting back to back on the beach; I look so happy. Surely I must have been, but was I thinking about the Red Sox at that moment, or of some work related hassle? Was she wondering about her new job, or whether or not to buy those new boots? Or worse, was she wondering how she ever got into this situation with me? Memory tells me we were very happy there at that beach, but it's hard to know.
I think I am 'a romantic', but not necessarily a romantic person. I never cared about flowers or presents until there was someone who meant something to me, and then I just wanted to make her happy all the time. It wasn't about the chocolates, and it's not about Valentine's Day; it's about really caring about someone and realizing that these things will make her happy. So I'm not sitting at home slitting my wrists today because it's Valentine's Day and I have no significant other. I'm looking over the past and realising that I will always remember it fondly, despite anger, heartbreak, resentment, or sadness. I will remind myself from time to time through a few snatched photos that I will occasionally look at. And it will always make me smile and feel warm inside, as it did today. And so I guess I really am just an old romantic.
Friday, February 02, 2007
The Fishmonger of Danshui Lu
I happen to live on the corner of Danshui Lu and Hefei Lu, in the Luwan district of Shanghai. Being very much a creature of habit, I walk most of the length of Danshui Lu every day on my way to and from the shops, cafes, markets, and restaurants of Xintiandi and Huaihai Lu. There are other, more attractive routes I could take to be sure, but somehow I always find myself back on this dingy, over crowded road; in particular the block between Zizhong Lu and Fuxing Lu, with its funky fumes, its simple sounds and sights. Lucky for me, I moved here in time to see Danshui Lu in all is raw, uncut glory. Sadly, I don't think it will be around for much longer.
I could easily walk home by taking Madang Lu, only a block away, but a neighborhood on the up-and-up, with its new subway station going in (and blocks of row houses going out). But it's losing all its flavor now. When I first moved here a year ago it was a lovely, leafy street with charming, if dilapidated brick row houses on either side. But now a big subway project has ex'd out the entire east side of the street, and on the next block the west side is a ghost town, getting smashed down piece meal. Inevitably there will be a shiny new shopping complex above the shiny new subway station, and high rise condos closer to me - hopefully not obscuring my views too badly. But I'm on the thirty first floor so I'm not that worried.
As I rail against the obliteration of 'old Shanghai' I realise I am open to charges of hypocrisy, since I myself live in a high rise. But my guilt is tempered with the knowledge that my building is ten years old, and by Shanghai speed-morphing standards it's already 'old'. But getting back to Danshui Lu. It's really old, and its inhabitants are quite an incredible, inscrutable bunch. In fact a lot of them are also really old. I never seem to get tired of watching them go about their daily business, it being so far removed from the 'modern' life I knew in America. I say modern life because the scenes being played out on Danshui Lu are probably not much different from life in say, turn of the century America. Where we now have mega-markets, organic deliveries, boutique delis, home and bath emporiums, and fast food, Danshui Lu has grubby little shop fronts selling vegetables, fruit, tobacco, tea, meat and poultry. And my personal favorite, the fishmonger.
These shop fronts are very small, maybe ten or fifteen square feet, and almost always where the proprietor lives and sleeps. Often the whole family. Many's the night I have seen a sleepy eyed woman closing the front gate of a little shop from the inside. I have also looked past the energetic cajoling of a fruiterer to see a wizened old man sit up from his loft bed inside the shop, surrounded by supplies, and call for his tea. There is one woman who lives in a tiny vegetable stand - not more than the size of a decent bathroom - that is fantastically cluttered and spilling out everywhere onto the sidewalk. She is constantly washing, trimming, and pruning her goods, seated at a small stool on the sidewalk, while simultaneously doing her laundry (by hand) and hanging it everywhere around the shop. In fact most of the inhabitants of Danshui Lu hang their clothes out to dry on the street, from windows, and with an elaborate web of lines connecting street lights, trees, shutters, and power lines. In order to keep them out of harms (and pedestrians) way they hang the clothes high above the sidewalk with bamboo or wooden poles, reminding me of the contraptions they used to use in old school delis in New York to get things that were stacked high up on the shelves. It's not at all unusual to feel a drop of collected water hit you in the face as you hurry along your way. Looking up you might find a pair of lucky red underwear or some faded sheets, freshly hung out to dry a full story up.
There are no fewer than three vegetable stands on this block, and they get their goods in from the countryside daily. You can always tell what's in season on Danshui Lu just by looking at the baskets of greens being clipped and washed in front of the vegetable stands. A few times I asked the Shanghainese (all they generally speak on this road) name of the fresh vegetable with the idea that I would casually drop it while ordering at a restaurant later that night. But I inevitably paid for my showing off, as the waitress took that as a sign that I spoke the local lingo and began a rapid fire discourse about the greens. Sheepishly I would then have to throw my hands up and mutter "Wo bu dong", I don't understand.
If fruit is what you're after, there is even more of that. In fact, I would say that Shanghai has as much, if not more fresh fruit around than any place I've ever lived. There are fruit stands simply everywhere. On this block of Danshui Lu there are five, including the corner. I always ask myself, who buys it all? I buy my fair share, and one of the small joys in my life is the fact that they always have fresh, firm apples for sale. Lately the season has delivered a bounty of small (the size of a large grape) delicious mandarin oranges, locally called 'jin jeu'. They are firm and smooth on the outside, and you basically just pop them in your mouth and eat the whole thing, thin rind and all. Absolutely amazing; sweeter than an orange, but the rind adds the slightest hint of bitterness to the proceedings, and you don't even notice the pulp and pits. I've had a hard time keeping them on my kitchen table, as they are hard to stop eating once you start. Today I bought a bagful from my favorite place on the way home, and when the proprietress rang me up she looked at me and put up two fingers, flashing them twice. Now, understand that this lady has stuck with me through my knowing how to say 'hello' and 'thank you' and not much else, to learning (and forgetting) how to count, to finally having a very tentative grasp of Putonghua, or Mandarin. And she speaks Shanghainese, a whole other dialect. She looked at me and said what sounded like "Nee eh nee", flashing the two fingers again. Her son said something from the back, where he was doing his homework amidst the supplies and empty boxes, and they both laughed. Not at me, but knowingly - they know me by now. Then she said "Er shi er" which is Putonghua for twenty two. This may sound ridiculous, but it was a breakthrough for me. I knew she was saying twenty two in Shanghaihua, although I was too shy to ask in mandarin. But I knew! So I asked her to repeat the Shangahinese and she did and we established that it meant I owed her twenty two kuai at the end of it all. I paid and was happily on my way.
It's been unseasonably warm the last few days, and with the warm weather came the return of another interesting feature of Danshui Lu, the floating card game. As a rule this card game is going on regardless of the elements, kind of like the U.S. Postal Service. But the bitter cold of January had driven it inside somewhere, or possibly shut it down altogether. So the other evening as I walked up the road in my light sweatshirt, eating jin jeus, and enjoying the twilight, I was happy to see them back in action; right back in their favorite spot, in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a rather disreputable looking smoke shop. As usual the game itself was dwarfed by the crowd of kibitzers standing around the rickety table, smoking, spitting, and making side bets. Once when I was passing by I noticed a larger than usual crowd and realised that the card game wasn't getting the attention it usually does; in fact the heaving swell of humanity was all crowded around the front of the smoke shop instead. Not being able to resist, I walked over to take a look and discovered (after a minute or two of jostling for position) that there was a pitched cricket fight going on. Inside the shop, seated across a small table from each other were two old men, and in what looked like a small flat bowl were two glistening black crickets going at it. The tension was edible, and the action was fast, with so much money going down on the two combatants. I watched for a minute, but the novelty of my presence quickly evaporated and the gamblers edged me out to watch their investments. Seriously, you would have thought it was Ali-Frazier or the 'Thrilla in Manila' by the looks on their faces.
I have previously mentioned the notorious 'pink houses', and surprisingly, while this humble block of Danshui Lu boasts three hair salons and two foot massage places, there are no barber shops of the dodgy variety to be seen. At least not any outright ones, but you never can tell at night. One night I was walking home quite late and as I walked past one of the foot massage places a girl came out, and when she saw me she quickly smiled and said "You want massagey?"
"Foot massage?" I queried. Remember it was after midnight. I thought it was a bit late for this kind of service. She smiled slyly and said "I give you good massagey...now!" I passed.
As I walk home every day I always notice something new. Recently one of the fruiterers on the west side of the street has expanded, and now his shop seems to be two shops banged together, giving it an almost reasonable size. I will continue to buy from the ramshackle place on the corner though, despite (or possibly because of) getting heckled in Shanghainese from the lady there. Another development has been the slow proliferation of arty little boutiques along the road, always a danger sign to any old neighborhood. Just ask the East Village in New York, or Shoreditch in London. It seems especially odd on Danshui Lu, with it's rough manners and village atmosphere. But there they are; there are three now, with names like La Vie Jolie and Artiscene. They all sell jewelry, clothes, and assorted knick knackery. I'm sure the rent must be dirt cheap. I wonder if the shop owners and denizens of Danshui Lu take a moment out of their treadmill day to reflect on what these boutiques might portend? Right around the corner, across from Rich Gate all the original shops are long gone, replaced by...boutiques. Probably not, as the locals don't seem to be the most reflective people; but rather, hard working and living, in their 'head down and get on with it' Shanghai way.
There are two rough and ready little restaurants on this block that cook food in tiny shop fronts and seve their customers on crates and stools out on the sidewalk, in a low budget version of al fresco dining. The sidewalk within a ten foot radius of these places is filthy and grease stained, and the curbside perpetually cluttered with refuse from their quick, oily offerings. To be sure, these places are nerve centers for the neighborhood. Everyone from locals to the migrant construction workers from the nearby construction projects take meals here - usually a meat and a vegetable (whatever they're cooking that day) cooked in a wok in copious amounts of oil, the Shanghai way. This rough hewn meal is invariably washed down with large bottles of local Reeb beer (get it? Beer spelled backwards) and then cupfuls of cheap tea. It may not sound wonderful, but if you can get that all down your neck for ten kuai who can complain? The second place is a bit larger and actually has a few tables inside. They also serve seafood, and at certain times when a nice catch comes in they will proudly display live crayfish, crabs, or shrimp outside for all the Lu to see. Again, it's absolutely filthy to look at, but that never stops the locals from dallying on until past ten some nights, picking at bones, drinking, smoking, spitting (invariably), and basically enjoying life. I have been sorely tempted to take a seat myself when the crayfish are on offer, but can't get past the grease and grime of it all. I have eaten in much worse places in the the world (did somebody say India?) but if I'm given a choice I prefer to eat in relative cleanliness. Having said that, I have no doubt that those crayfish would be delicious. I'll have to ask if they do take-away.
And that brings me to my favorite character on the block, the fishmonger. Actually there are two fishmongers, possibly three (I can never tell, one of them just opportunistically sells whatever's going). But my fascination lies with the larger shop, just before Fuxing Lu, on the west side of the street. Like everyone else that sells anything (aside from the recent boutiques) on this block, the fishmonger's wares are displayed wherever he can find space; in his shop, on the sidewalk, in the street, and sometimes even across the street, in the form of large fish hanging from windows, drying in the sun. It is not uncommon to walk by and see three of four kiddie pools full of eels or crabs or splashing river fish impeding your path. So in this way he kind of forces you to have a look at what he's got. Talk about marketing 101. And keep your wits about you when passing his place, because anything can be hanging from hooks under his awning. One recent day I was absent-mindedly following the trajectory of a guy on a motorbike who had just finished eating at the seafood place on the opposite sidewalk; he got up, blew out the shocking contents of his nose in the general direction of the curb, coughed up something loud and long, spat it with much flair, hopped on his bike while lighting a cigarette, and peeled out, honking his horn in warning at all and sundry. Talk about multi-tasking. Mildly affronted, I followed him with my eyes until I felt a damp 'thump' against my forehead. Flinching, I looked up to see the swinging carcass of a freshly plucked duck. In fact there were many ducks, and chickens, and even a few geese, all hanging from hooks from every place imaginable. What's this, I thought. Is the fishmonger branching out?
At that moment it was about six p.m. and the dusk was settling on Danshui Lu like a dirty, well-worn jacket. I looked up at the naked flock above my head in amazement. Also hanging to dry in the twilight were blood red slabs of bacon and chubby grey fish that had been sliced in half and opened up, so that they resembled a round flounder. Just then the fishmonger, a huge man with a wedge shaped head and deep set coal black eyes, walked out and started laughing and pointing. His shirt and apron were more crimson than whatever color they originally were. In fact he looked like he'd been tarred and feathered bizarrely with dark red pitch and fish scales. His enormous black rubber boots were equally covered, and he came squishing out to the sidewalk and started booming at me in rapid fire Shanghainese. I had no idea what he was saying, but he kept pointing up at the duck I had knocked into and laughing and saying what sounded like "De va?" I have been living in Shanghai for almost a year now and this is probably the phrase I hear the most from cabbies, store clerks, or any local people. Actually he was saying 'dui ba?', which is a bastardization of 'dui ma?' or to be literal, 'correct, right?'. It's the same as saying 'right?', or in New York possibly 'You know what I'm sayin?' But alas, I didn't know what he was saying.
Nevertheless, he took the oddly skinny duck down and offered me a close up view of its waxy head and over sized webbed feet. At that point I noticed that inside the shop was what looked like his whole family, five or six people, all seated around a chopping block table eating dinner. They were all in their work clothes, and eating heartily (and noisily). They all looked up at the same time, only vaguely amused (with their dinner in front of them), and a bit puzzled. They all had the same snowman's eyes and round faces with fiery cheeks, and I thought they must be related. These are not the same Chinese people you meet at parties and night clubs. These are the People of the People's Republic. Then the big boss said something and they all erupted with laughter. I looked back and he was thrusting the dead duck towards me and everyone thought that was pretty funny too. I started laughing also, and then he pulled down one of the Frisbee fish and showed me that, making another crack out of the side of his mouth that brought the house down again. It was funny too, I could tell that. He had very natural comic timing, something I always find hard not to appreciate even if it's aimed at me in an incomprehensible language. So I walked over to the wall and pointed to what looked like a splayed open narwhal hanging on a nail. Really, I had been marvelling at these fish from the fist time I saw them drying against his wall a few weeks earlier. They are silver and shaped something like a tarpon, and average about five feet long. "Zhe ge shen me?" I asked, and pulled a face; and then there was one of those beautiful moments in comedy called the broad take...and then everyone started cracking up. I guess just the fact that I'd spoken (quite possibly incorrect) Chinese was enough of a shocker to the convulse the peanut gallery. They really were getting a kick out of it, repeating what I'd said with obvious relish over and over. All I'd asked was "what's this?"
Deflecting the fishmongers overtures to buy a big dried fish for my house brought on another round of giggling. As if I'd have the first idea what to do with it. He kept pointing to it and saying, among other things, "Chun jie", his small black eyes glittering in the reflection of the lone bulb hanging above him. "Chun jie" they all kept saying, and I was familiar with the term, but my Chinese being extremely shaky, I panicked and couldn't put two and two together. I pantomimed my adieus and we all shared a last snicker, having shared a joke that we hardly understood. But it was good natured, and I was glad of this human contact, this small moment.
***
I walked away happy and scratching my head at what he could have possibly been saying to me that was so funny. When I got home I went right to my Chinese lessons and searched through my notes. And there it was. Chun jie means Spring Festival, or Chinese New Year, an event that will take place starting next week. So that's why all the delicacies were hanging there. The next day I asked my Chinese tutor about those big fish and she told me they are called 'man yu', and they are caught in the ocean and eaten in soups and stews after being dried. Then I recalled hearing that word over and over again too. Of course they were laughing; in their world Chun Jie only comes once a year and it's the biggest celebration of the year, and I was pointing to a fish that's ritualistically eaten during the Spring Festival. Every Shanghainese person, young and old knows about man yu.
And now I do too.
I could easily walk home by taking Madang Lu, only a block away, but a neighborhood on the up-and-up, with its new subway station going in (and blocks of row houses going out). But it's losing all its flavor now. When I first moved here a year ago it was a lovely, leafy street with charming, if dilapidated brick row houses on either side. But now a big subway project has ex'd out the entire east side of the street, and on the next block the west side is a ghost town, getting smashed down piece meal. Inevitably there will be a shiny new shopping complex above the shiny new subway station, and high rise condos closer to me - hopefully not obscuring my views too badly. But I'm on the thirty first floor so I'm not that worried.
As I rail against the obliteration of 'old Shanghai' I realise I am open to charges of hypocrisy, since I myself live in a high rise. But my guilt is tempered with the knowledge that my building is ten years old, and by Shanghai speed-morphing standards it's already 'old'. But getting back to Danshui Lu. It's really old, and its inhabitants are quite an incredible, inscrutable bunch. In fact a lot of them are also really old. I never seem to get tired of watching them go about their daily business, it being so far removed from the 'modern' life I knew in America. I say modern life because the scenes being played out on Danshui Lu are probably not much different from life in say, turn of the century America. Where we now have mega-markets, organic deliveries, boutique delis, home and bath emporiums, and fast food, Danshui Lu has grubby little shop fronts selling vegetables, fruit, tobacco, tea, meat and poultry. And my personal favorite, the fishmonger.
These shop fronts are very small, maybe ten or fifteen square feet, and almost always where the proprietor lives and sleeps. Often the whole family. Many's the night I have seen a sleepy eyed woman closing the front gate of a little shop from the inside. I have also looked past the energetic cajoling of a fruiterer to see a wizened old man sit up from his loft bed inside the shop, surrounded by supplies, and call for his tea. There is one woman who lives in a tiny vegetable stand - not more than the size of a decent bathroom - that is fantastically cluttered and spilling out everywhere onto the sidewalk. She is constantly washing, trimming, and pruning her goods, seated at a small stool on the sidewalk, while simultaneously doing her laundry (by hand) and hanging it everywhere around the shop. In fact most of the inhabitants of Danshui Lu hang their clothes out to dry on the street, from windows, and with an elaborate web of lines connecting street lights, trees, shutters, and power lines. In order to keep them out of harms (and pedestrians) way they hang the clothes high above the sidewalk with bamboo or wooden poles, reminding me of the contraptions they used to use in old school delis in New York to get things that were stacked high up on the shelves. It's not at all unusual to feel a drop of collected water hit you in the face as you hurry along your way. Looking up you might find a pair of lucky red underwear or some faded sheets, freshly hung out to dry a full story up.
There are no fewer than three vegetable stands on this block, and they get their goods in from the countryside daily. You can always tell what's in season on Danshui Lu just by looking at the baskets of greens being clipped and washed in front of the vegetable stands. A few times I asked the Shanghainese (all they generally speak on this road) name of the fresh vegetable with the idea that I would casually drop it while ordering at a restaurant later that night. But I inevitably paid for my showing off, as the waitress took that as a sign that I spoke the local lingo and began a rapid fire discourse about the greens. Sheepishly I would then have to throw my hands up and mutter "Wo bu dong", I don't understand.
If fruit is what you're after, there is even more of that. In fact, I would say that Shanghai has as much, if not more fresh fruit around than any place I've ever lived. There are fruit stands simply everywhere. On this block of Danshui Lu there are five, including the corner. I always ask myself, who buys it all? I buy my fair share, and one of the small joys in my life is the fact that they always have fresh, firm apples for sale. Lately the season has delivered a bounty of small (the size of a large grape) delicious mandarin oranges, locally called 'jin jeu'. They are firm and smooth on the outside, and you basically just pop them in your mouth and eat the whole thing, thin rind and all. Absolutely amazing; sweeter than an orange, but the rind adds the slightest hint of bitterness to the proceedings, and you don't even notice the pulp and pits. I've had a hard time keeping them on my kitchen table, as they are hard to stop eating once you start. Today I bought a bagful from my favorite place on the way home, and when the proprietress rang me up she looked at me and put up two fingers, flashing them twice. Now, understand that this lady has stuck with me through my knowing how to say 'hello' and 'thank you' and not much else, to learning (and forgetting) how to count, to finally having a very tentative grasp of Putonghua, or Mandarin. And she speaks Shanghainese, a whole other dialect. She looked at me and said what sounded like "Nee eh nee", flashing the two fingers again. Her son said something from the back, where he was doing his homework amidst the supplies and empty boxes, and they both laughed. Not at me, but knowingly - they know me by now. Then she said "Er shi er" which is Putonghua for twenty two. This may sound ridiculous, but it was a breakthrough for me. I knew she was saying twenty two in Shanghaihua, although I was too shy to ask in mandarin. But I knew! So I asked her to repeat the Shangahinese and she did and we established that it meant I owed her twenty two kuai at the end of it all. I paid and was happily on my way.
It's been unseasonably warm the last few days, and with the warm weather came the return of another interesting feature of Danshui Lu, the floating card game. As a rule this card game is going on regardless of the elements, kind of like the U.S. Postal Service. But the bitter cold of January had driven it inside somewhere, or possibly shut it down altogether. So the other evening as I walked up the road in my light sweatshirt, eating jin jeus, and enjoying the twilight, I was happy to see them back in action; right back in their favorite spot, in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a rather disreputable looking smoke shop. As usual the game itself was dwarfed by the crowd of kibitzers standing around the rickety table, smoking, spitting, and making side bets. Once when I was passing by I noticed a larger than usual crowd and realised that the card game wasn't getting the attention it usually does; in fact the heaving swell of humanity was all crowded around the front of the smoke shop instead. Not being able to resist, I walked over to take a look and discovered (after a minute or two of jostling for position) that there was a pitched cricket fight going on. Inside the shop, seated across a small table from each other were two old men, and in what looked like a small flat bowl were two glistening black crickets going at it. The tension was edible, and the action was fast, with so much money going down on the two combatants. I watched for a minute, but the novelty of my presence quickly evaporated and the gamblers edged me out to watch their investments. Seriously, you would have thought it was Ali-Frazier or the 'Thrilla in Manila' by the looks on their faces.
I have previously mentioned the notorious 'pink houses', and surprisingly, while this humble block of Danshui Lu boasts three hair salons and two foot massage places, there are no barber shops of the dodgy variety to be seen. At least not any outright ones, but you never can tell at night. One night I was walking home quite late and as I walked past one of the foot massage places a girl came out, and when she saw me she quickly smiled and said "You want massagey?"
"Foot massage?" I queried. Remember it was after midnight. I thought it was a bit late for this kind of service. She smiled slyly and said "I give you good massagey...now!" I passed.
As I walk home every day I always notice something new. Recently one of the fruiterers on the west side of the street has expanded, and now his shop seems to be two shops banged together, giving it an almost reasonable size. I will continue to buy from the ramshackle place on the corner though, despite (or possibly because of) getting heckled in Shanghainese from the lady there. Another development has been the slow proliferation of arty little boutiques along the road, always a danger sign to any old neighborhood. Just ask the East Village in New York, or Shoreditch in London. It seems especially odd on Danshui Lu, with it's rough manners and village atmosphere. But there they are; there are three now, with names like La Vie Jolie and Artiscene. They all sell jewelry, clothes, and assorted knick knackery. I'm sure the rent must be dirt cheap. I wonder if the shop owners and denizens of Danshui Lu take a moment out of their treadmill day to reflect on what these boutiques might portend? Right around the corner, across from Rich Gate all the original shops are long gone, replaced by...boutiques. Probably not, as the locals don't seem to be the most reflective people; but rather, hard working and living, in their 'head down and get on with it' Shanghai way.
There are two rough and ready little restaurants on this block that cook food in tiny shop fronts and seve their customers on crates and stools out on the sidewalk, in a low budget version of al fresco dining. The sidewalk within a ten foot radius of these places is filthy and grease stained, and the curbside perpetually cluttered with refuse from their quick, oily offerings. To be sure, these places are nerve centers for the neighborhood. Everyone from locals to the migrant construction workers from the nearby construction projects take meals here - usually a meat and a vegetable (whatever they're cooking that day) cooked in a wok in copious amounts of oil, the Shanghai way. This rough hewn meal is invariably washed down with large bottles of local Reeb beer (get it? Beer spelled backwards) and then cupfuls of cheap tea. It may not sound wonderful, but if you can get that all down your neck for ten kuai who can complain? The second place is a bit larger and actually has a few tables inside. They also serve seafood, and at certain times when a nice catch comes in they will proudly display live crayfish, crabs, or shrimp outside for all the Lu to see. Again, it's absolutely filthy to look at, but that never stops the locals from dallying on until past ten some nights, picking at bones, drinking, smoking, spitting (invariably), and basically enjoying life. I have been sorely tempted to take a seat myself when the crayfish are on offer, but can't get past the grease and grime of it all. I have eaten in much worse places in the the world (did somebody say India?) but if I'm given a choice I prefer to eat in relative cleanliness. Having said that, I have no doubt that those crayfish would be delicious. I'll have to ask if they do take-away.
And that brings me to my favorite character on the block, the fishmonger. Actually there are two fishmongers, possibly three (I can never tell, one of them just opportunistically sells whatever's going). But my fascination lies with the larger shop, just before Fuxing Lu, on the west side of the street. Like everyone else that sells anything (aside from the recent boutiques) on this block, the fishmonger's wares are displayed wherever he can find space; in his shop, on the sidewalk, in the street, and sometimes even across the street, in the form of large fish hanging from windows, drying in the sun. It is not uncommon to walk by and see three of four kiddie pools full of eels or crabs or splashing river fish impeding your path. So in this way he kind of forces you to have a look at what he's got. Talk about marketing 101. And keep your wits about you when passing his place, because anything can be hanging from hooks under his awning. One recent day I was absent-mindedly following the trajectory of a guy on a motorbike who had just finished eating at the seafood place on the opposite sidewalk; he got up, blew out the shocking contents of his nose in the general direction of the curb, coughed up something loud and long, spat it with much flair, hopped on his bike while lighting a cigarette, and peeled out, honking his horn in warning at all and sundry. Talk about multi-tasking. Mildly affronted, I followed him with my eyes until I felt a damp 'thump' against my forehead. Flinching, I looked up to see the swinging carcass of a freshly plucked duck. In fact there were many ducks, and chickens, and even a few geese, all hanging from hooks from every place imaginable. What's this, I thought. Is the fishmonger branching out?
At that moment it was about six p.m. and the dusk was settling on Danshui Lu like a dirty, well-worn jacket. I looked up at the naked flock above my head in amazement. Also hanging to dry in the twilight were blood red slabs of bacon and chubby grey fish that had been sliced in half and opened up, so that they resembled a round flounder. Just then the fishmonger, a huge man with a wedge shaped head and deep set coal black eyes, walked out and started laughing and pointing. His shirt and apron were more crimson than whatever color they originally were. In fact he looked like he'd been tarred and feathered bizarrely with dark red pitch and fish scales. His enormous black rubber boots were equally covered, and he came squishing out to the sidewalk and started booming at me in rapid fire Shanghainese. I had no idea what he was saying, but he kept pointing up at the duck I had knocked into and laughing and saying what sounded like "De va?" I have been living in Shanghai for almost a year now and this is probably the phrase I hear the most from cabbies, store clerks, or any local people. Actually he was saying 'dui ba?', which is a bastardization of 'dui ma?' or to be literal, 'correct, right?'. It's the same as saying 'right?', or in New York possibly 'You know what I'm sayin?' But alas, I didn't know what he was saying.
Nevertheless, he took the oddly skinny duck down and offered me a close up view of its waxy head and over sized webbed feet. At that point I noticed that inside the shop was what looked like his whole family, five or six people, all seated around a chopping block table eating dinner. They were all in their work clothes, and eating heartily (and noisily). They all looked up at the same time, only vaguely amused (with their dinner in front of them), and a bit puzzled. They all had the same snowman's eyes and round faces with fiery cheeks, and I thought they must be related. These are not the same Chinese people you meet at parties and night clubs. These are the People of the People's Republic. Then the big boss said something and they all erupted with laughter. I looked back and he was thrusting the dead duck towards me and everyone thought that was pretty funny too. I started laughing also, and then he pulled down one of the Frisbee fish and showed me that, making another crack out of the side of his mouth that brought the house down again. It was funny too, I could tell that. He had very natural comic timing, something I always find hard not to appreciate even if it's aimed at me in an incomprehensible language. So I walked over to the wall and pointed to what looked like a splayed open narwhal hanging on a nail. Really, I had been marvelling at these fish from the fist time I saw them drying against his wall a few weeks earlier. They are silver and shaped something like a tarpon, and average about five feet long. "Zhe ge shen me?" I asked, and pulled a face; and then there was one of those beautiful moments in comedy called the broad take...and then everyone started cracking up. I guess just the fact that I'd spoken (quite possibly incorrect) Chinese was enough of a shocker to the convulse the peanut gallery. They really were getting a kick out of it, repeating what I'd said with obvious relish over and over. All I'd asked was "what's this?"
Deflecting the fishmongers overtures to buy a big dried fish for my house brought on another round of giggling. As if I'd have the first idea what to do with it. He kept pointing to it and saying, among other things, "Chun jie", his small black eyes glittering in the reflection of the lone bulb hanging above him. "Chun jie" they all kept saying, and I was familiar with the term, but my Chinese being extremely shaky, I panicked and couldn't put two and two together. I pantomimed my adieus and we all shared a last snicker, having shared a joke that we hardly understood. But it was good natured, and I was glad of this human contact, this small moment.
***
I walked away happy and scratching my head at what he could have possibly been saying to me that was so funny. When I got home I went right to my Chinese lessons and searched through my notes. And there it was. Chun jie means Spring Festival, or Chinese New Year, an event that will take place starting next week. So that's why all the delicacies were hanging there. The next day I asked my Chinese tutor about those big fish and she told me they are called 'man yu', and they are caught in the ocean and eaten in soups and stews after being dried. Then I recalled hearing that word over and over again too. Of course they were laughing; in their world Chun Jie only comes once a year and it's the biggest celebration of the year, and I was pointing to a fish that's ritualistically eaten during the Spring Festival. Every Shanghainese person, young and old knows about man yu.
And now I do too.
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