August, 2007
The downpour came suddenly, with a violence that reminded me I was living in a world with words like Monsoon and Typhoon. I wasn't close enough to home to make a dash for it, so I succumbed, letting the fat moonstone drops cover me, hitting me in the face. Within seconds I was soaked. My sturdy new sandals were useless and slippery as I tried to navigate the sudden puddles, the curbside rivers. In a moment of childhood glee I was tempted to take them off and run splashing on, but mindful of Shanghai street flotsam, I trudged on. At the corner of Xingye Lu a straw field workers hat flew by me as I saw a creeping taxi come to a grudging halt; an intrepid cyclist had literally blown onto the hood of his car. Through the headlights I watched as he tried to disentangle himself in the dark. It was three in the afternoon.
Soaked to a state of abandon, I pushed forward against the gale, at times stopped in my tracks by the force of it. At one point the wind suddenly changed tack and slammed into me from behind, almost knocking me over. Not so much scared as awestruck, I moved on, slowly making my way up Madang Lu towards home. The small boutiques along the road were carrying on business as if there weren't lost umbrellas hurtling by their windows, or birds momentarily flying backwards, but a few of the shopkeepers were pressed up against the glass watching the street spectacle. Then the lightning came in seismic synapses, white hot as it cracked down into the skyline's silhouette. Like Frankenstein's monster, the city was re-energized.
At the first sign of electricity in the air I ducked into a small crafts shop. The young, bespectacled girl behind the counter gave me a sympathetic smile as I shook myself down at the door. I left a large puddle on the floor but she just smiled, and motioned me with her hands to get inside and shut the door. As I perused the handmade trinkets, she explained that the shop was in fact the co-operative effort of a group of art students, and then said in her Shanghai way, 'Why don't you buy my jewelry?' I looked at it, and some of the pieces were very nice, but I was only waiting out a storm and we both knew it. After a few minutes of small talk the explosions after the flashes grew further and further apart, thudding in the lonely distance. And then just as suddenly as it started, the rain stopped. The storm had passed.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
All the Tea in China
This is an older story that I wrote when I first moved to Shanghai in February 2006...
It’s snowing in Shanghai. Not a big snowfall, but enough of a shock to make me run out and buy a new fleece lined winter coat, sweater, and a hat. And to think I was lolling around by my pool in Bangkok only three days ago, complaining about the heat and dreaming about having seasons again. Well the sky is always greyer. So, now I’ve moved here to open a new night club, it’s colder than a witch’s tit, and I have to find an apartment. But I’m not complaining.
Currently I am staying right in the thick of things, in a globetrotting friend's small apartment on the corner of Nanchang Lu and Ruijin Lu. Lu, in case you haven’t had your coffee yet, is Chinese for street. I’m only a block away from Huaihai Lu, Shanghai’s version of Oxford Street, London, or stretches of Broadway in New York. It’s a wide avenue with blinking neon arches over the street (just in case you forgot you were in China) and no fewer than three Lacoste stores - one devoted solely to accessories. I’m not sure what those would be, but I’m guessing headbands and handbags, which we all need. It’s a bustling, hustling (“hello mista, you want bag-uh, watchee…lolex?”) little boulevard, originally erected by the French, and still retaining some lovely Art Deco architecture on either side. In fact, Huaihai Lu becomes ground zero of the old French Concession area of the city, and if you stray off along the tree-lined side streets you will find them to be neat, and for the most part architecturally intact. Never mind the laundry flapping outside the balconies, and draped from the branches of the august plane trees.
I’ve been apartment hunting around this area, literally high and low. You pretty much have two choices: old French architecture, or a new high rise. The place I’m staying in now is very much like a New York apartment. And by that I mean a lower Manhattan apartment: small, crowded, old, and bursting with flavor. Yesterday as I was coming into the wide open, unlocked building, an old lady was standing patiently by the entrance enjoying some late winter sun on her wrinkly red face; taking a breather before attempting the steps with her five plastic grocery bags. As I approached I smiled at her and she squinted at me evenly. I know from living in Chinatown in New York that people can be funny about accepting things without being able to return anything, so I hesitated, smiled, and then was about to head up when she started pointing to the bags on the ground and shouting (or it seemed like shouting) something. She pointed up the stairs and held up three fingers; OK, they go to the third floor. Being a good boy I picked them up and started up the stairs while she sat down there chuckling and catching her breath. What the hell, I’m new to the building, and as my friend told me: “China is all about relationships”.
So that’s one relationship I got going. Another one is with Hanson Chu, the young go-getter at the Starbuck’s down at the end of my block, who loves flexing his English skills with me. “Goodamorning Mista Chon, how are a you a doing today?” Bless him, he’s very efficient too; starts firing up that large Americano with steamed milk as soon as he sees me walking in. “You a will have-a-cinnamon a bun today make-a warm?”
I will indeed. Hanson has a wiry little frame and sharp features, accentuated by black rimmed glasses and a Rubber Soul era Lennonesque mop of pitch black hair. He seems to always have a smile curling at the corners of his mouth, which makes me want to joke with him. But it must only be a physical feature, because like most Shanghaiese I’ve met, he’s serious as cancer. So the other day when I said, “Hanson, I think I’ll have the steak tar tar today, and a double mocha caramel frappuccino – extra whipped cream” (complete with facial broad take) he looked a bit panic stricken. “Accuse me sir?” He looked mortified – that he either didn’t understand me or didn’t know something on the menu. “It’s OK Hanson, I’m joking” I said. Blank stare. I smiled again to assuage his fears, “I was only making a joke” I repeated. Blank stares from all the staff behind the counter. Grasping at straws, I almost broke into Thai English (“I joking you”) but I guess he understood, because I got my regular order, but that was the end of the ribbing.
I’m also starting to fall in love with the English names that everyone, and I mean everyone has in Shanghai. A few months ago when I came here to visit for the first time, I stayed at the well intentioned Pacific Suites Hotel on Shaanxi Lu, where the front desk alone was enough to let me know that the Chinese are serious about their English prenoms. There was Victoria Lu in guest relations, Simon Lim was hooking up my internet connection, and Blakely Kwan (a guy) was on point, making sure I woke up on time each morning. But the cake-taker had to be my man Speed Guo at the front desk. That’s right, Speed; a most efficient young chap, and strictly business. At one point when I had a bit of trouble with my debit card (what do you mean it’s not reading my Thai debit card?!) he looked me square in the eye and said “Maybe you have no money”. Now normally I would have to take offense at such a statement (true or otherwise) but I knew he was just being Chinese and stating the entirely possible.
When I was DJ’ing in Hong Kong last year I read about a top fashion designer named, wait for it…Pacino Wan, and that’s been my favorite ever since. And that would probably be the end-all and be-all, except for the fact that we’ve been in the middle of interviewing staff, and last week a kid named Volcano applied for a bartending job. Volcano Ho. Amazingly he didn’t get hired. I would have hired him for the name alone. Oh, and a cheeky, be-quiffed young upstart named Frankie Chu came in for a waiter job and said he’d been living and working in Dublin recently. When he came back for the second interview he asked the Head Chef and GM, “What’s the crack boys?” He was hired, and last Friday I bumped into him on the street, and making small talk I asked what he was up to for the night. He answered that he was “going out for a few jars with the lads”. Why I oughtta…
I’m starting to have a very bad relationship with Shanghai drivers, who are like New York drivers on crystal meth. Since I’ve been here (two weeks) I’ve seen four accidents that resulted in fights, and at least five or six minor scuffles (no fisticuffs, just pushing and yelling). The general rule of the roads in Asia is ‘might is right’, and after living in India and Thailand I’ve gotten used to it. The bus takes precedence over the car, the car can run down the motorbike, which will take out a bicycle, and on down to you. But in those countries an accident is basically a time-out, and everybody stops to have a look, take sides, kibbutz, etc. If there’s a victim everyone helps out. But the other evening I was walking along the street when I heard a ‘thump’ and quick screech of tires followed by a crashing noise; sure enough a town car had hit a cyclist, sending him airborne fifteen feet, where he landed in the gutter against a phone booth, dazed. So what did the guy in the car do? He got out, looked at the front of his car to assess damage, and proceeded to go over and start yelling at the cyclist, winding up for a kick, when the poor guy on the ground let out a pathetic groan and he held back (no doubt weighing the potential headache if the guy bought it then and there). But he continued to stand there waving his finger at the unfortunate fellow, pouring out a constant stream of abuse. No trying to see if he was all right, no sympathy, no concern for anything other than his car. Luckily a cop showed up at that moment and got in between them. And still the driver was screaming at the downed cyclist, who by now was sitting up trying to piece together his broken glasses and wiping blood off his face. The cop was literally holding the driver back as he made all the usual “Hold me back” motions like he still wanted a piece of him. I don’t know how it ended up but I could hear the guy yelling two blocks away as I walked home.
Well, if Shanghai drivers are something less than simpatico, that’s nothing compared to the everyday hurly-burly of people in the streets, shops, restaurants, movies - every where really. Lest we forget China is a country of 1.3 billion people, and at least 26 million of them are in Shanghai, so it’s kinda every man for himself really. Every woman too. On my second day in town I stopped at a local bakery to hook up the morning victuals, and as it was full of mostly old ladies buying bread and cakes I waited for them to be served first. I waited patiently, taking in the smell of freshly baked bread and watching the mad yelling of the ladies, who were in fact merely talking to each other in Shanghaiese volume. And I waited. And kept waiting some more, noticing that the line didn’t seem to be moving. Then I felt a nudge, and a hunched over, grey haired octogenarian was squeezing determinedly between me and the counter with a bag of croissants. She never looked at me or said anything, but just kept her head down and burrowed on until she got past me in the queue. Another lady, this one with a chubby brown face and a big box of pastries, got next to me and then (quite deftly) wedged her way under my arm until she was also in front of me; and then put her box up over the shorter lady in front of her and onto the counter, yelling at the cashier to ring her up (I assume). And there I was, mouth agape and taking it all in - and while I did that two more ladies pushed past me, the second actually head butting me from behind, which I’m sure was unintentional. It took me a minute or two, and then I got all hot under the collar, muttering “excuse me!” to absolutely no one, as I’m sure no one in the room spoke any English. And with no alternative, I finally got into the spirit of things and threw a few elbows (which cleared a path) and a head feint and I was in; just me and the cashier face to face, with a roiling sea of grannies pushing up behind me. And I’m thinking: I’m gonna have to do this every day?
Speaking of aunties, I had my first encounter with a Chinese ayi today. Ayi’s are cleaning ladies, and everyone has one. They practically come with the apartment in Shanghai. Rob’s ayi (literally “Auntie”) comes on Wednesdays, which I’d forgotten, and around 11 a.m. this morning, as I was sitting at the computer in all my glory (yesterday’s boxers, socks, and not much else) I heard a click at the door and then the jingling of keys. It took me a moment to register who it might be, as no one else has keys. But it was too late; just as I remembered about the ayi and thought to make a mad dash into the bathroom; she was already inside, looking at me and smiling. Laughing actually, and saying “Nihao!” Um, Hello to you too Ayi…but meanwhile I’m sitting there in my mohair body armor. But she couldn’t have cared less, and just started tidying up and chattering away in some undecipherable dialect. Unfortunately she started cleaning the bathroom first, so my shower was out. I took this opportunity to quickly throw a shirt on and turn off the computer. Eventually I got in there and had a shower as she quickly tidied up, did a load of laundry, made the bed, and asked (through a combination of Chinese, English, and charades) if I had any shopping to do or bills she needed me to go pay. You go girl. And I’ll tell you something else about Rob’s ayi; keep it under your hat, but (to my horror) she’s definitely younger than me. I wonder what the Chinese word for cousin is?
Finally, on the advice of a few friends who live here I decided to check out the antiques market last Sunday, thinking I might score a cool coffee table or hat stand for my new place – once I get one that is. So I headed out around noon and decided to walk, as the first hint of spring was wooing the dingy window panes, throwing heat and light into the apartment. But spring can be a dishonest lover, and foolishly I ventured out with only a very stylish, but light windbreaker on. The first few blocks down the absolutely rammed Huaihai Lu were fine, but then the March wind kicked in and I realized that, among other things, I could use a hat. Stubbornly I plowed on, and adding to my misery was the teeming mob of Sunday shoppers, idlers, and incessantly honking drivers. It was Bakery Shop II, the sequel. I was getting pushed, pulled, nudged, and stepped on (in the form of a few from-behind ‘flat tires’) from every direction, and no one seemed to take any notice of it. No “excuse me” or “sorry” or anything…just head down and keep on keepin’ on.
So I picked up the pace (when in Rome) which had the added benefit of warming me up a bit. But I was having some private, burning resentments, I can tell you. I started to see not happy, laughing people out enjoying a false spring day; not happy go lucky school kids racing around playing keep away with a stolen cap; not dawdling couples window shopping, no! I saw pushy, me-first, rude Shanghaiese – and suddenly I became belligerent myself. I got ‘New York’ on ‘em, and in a New York minute, taking pleasure in leaning a bit into a much shorter man as I passed him, not so much as a “sorry” escaping from my lips. I kept my elbows right where they were and sure enough, the big guy in the black leather jacket with grey zipper sweater (Chinese middle class urban uniform) ran right into it. Oops. But if I was looking for confrontation (and I’m not sure I was) I wouldn’t get it. Everyone just kept on trudging along, as if they hadn’t just taken one in the bread basket. That was almost more maddening.
By the time I finally got to Dong Tai Lu I was in a state. I was cold, harried, and agitated. The last thing I wanted to do was get into some bargaining Olympics with a bunch of chiseling knock-off antiques dealers. I’d been forewarned of their notoriously conniving ways, and had steeled myself for battle, even if it is all merely theatre in the end. But just then I was in no mood. I cautiously (hands clasped behind back, sunglasses on, bored expression) perused the various stalls that line both sides of the street, not wanting to commit to anything. I knew that a mere step into any stall would prompt the beginnings of the ‘Asian hard sell’. I saw a funky little red painted table that caught my eye, and when I asked how much it was the old lady quoted such a ridiculous price that I decided to fix her wagon and not even bargain. As I walked away she was yelling “How much-uh?” over and over, astonished that I wouldn’t even play the game a little. I just wasn’t in the mood.
Further down the lane, almost at the end, I noticed a well-lit, clean looking little tea shop with no one inside. It suddenly occurred to me that I had been living in China for over a week and hadn’t bought any tea yet. Worse, I had been drinking some inferior Sri Lankan stuff (with milk no less) that I found at the City Market, which caters almost entirely to westerners. This struck me as somehow absurd, and so I decided to go buy some tea for the house. When I walked into this shop I was first struck by its mellow atmosphere, quite a contrast to the mad shouting and bargaining outside. At first glance it seemed like there was no one there, but the door was open, and then a very calm little man came out from the back, where he obviously was living. He asked me in pretty good English how I was, and it was so nice to hear something other than a hustle that I instantly loved him and his warm little shop. Then his wife came out with their new baby, and she brought him over so I could have a look. It was so simple and friendly that my former mood melted away and I found myself playing with the baby, and in fact it was a very cute kid. But all Chinese babies look cute to me, I must admit. Anyway, I asked if he had any Oolong tea, and he smiled and proceeded to tell me a bit about Oolong tea, the grades he had, and then elaborately prepare four different kinds of Oolong for me. If you’ve never done the Chinese tea ceremony, it’s really lovely, and you can see how important tea is to the culture; how lovingly they treat it. First he let me smell the fresh tea, then he put it into a very small ceramic pot that had been pre-rinsed with scalding hot water. Then the tea went in, and then more boiling water until it was full. Then the lid went on and more hot water poured on top of that. The first pot was poured out entirely, over various ceramic figures representing the animals of the Chinese zodiac. Then it was re-filled and left to steep for half a minute or so. Only now did he pour out a tiny cupful for me, and this first grade had the aroma of flowers and smelled heavenly, but the taste wasn’t sweet or flowery at all, and indeed had a nice kick to it. He repeated this three more times with different types of Oolong, and then again with some green tea and a nice black tea that had no name, according to my host.
In the end I bought the floral Oolong, some green tea, and a bit of the no-name black. All of it wrapped tight and packaged in very nice silk pattern boxes. He even threw in some jasmine tea for me to try for free. On the wall was a menu of the teas he had and at the bottom it read: ‘Dear customer, if you need the more tea you can call me and I will deliver to you house, the charge is not more. If you not satisfied with tea goods you can exchange or no pay’.
And you know I will. Talk about attitude readjustment, I walked out of there with my faith in humanity firmly restored. Suddenly nothing bothered me, and I looked on with amusement at a French guy trying to buy a porcelain pitcher by an elaborate series of ‘final’ walkings away, only to come back and punch a new ‘final’ number into the shopkeeper’s calculator. Indeed, a scuffling crowd of people pushing in past me to buy some freshly cut pineapple seemed quaint and even picturesque. I plowed in and bought one myself.
As the sun went down I hopped in a cab and confidently proclaimed my address (just about all I know how to say in Chinese so far) and to my utter surprise the driver understood me on the first go. Things were looking up. We stopped at a red light and I looked up at the street lights swaying in the chilly March breeze, framed by a silhouette of crooked Shanghai tree branches. I suddenly was back in a scene from my youth, on a street very much like this one; somber, tree-lined, and windy. It was so familiar, and I dreamily tried to place it until I pinched myself and realized I was in China. Then the lights changed and as I stared through the branches at the lights I knew I had seen it before. It’s a very small world after all.
It’s snowing in Shanghai. Not a big snowfall, but enough of a shock to make me run out and buy a new fleece lined winter coat, sweater, and a hat. And to think I was lolling around by my pool in Bangkok only three days ago, complaining about the heat and dreaming about having seasons again. Well the sky is always greyer. So, now I’ve moved here to open a new night club, it’s colder than a witch’s tit, and I have to find an apartment. But I’m not complaining.
Currently I am staying right in the thick of things, in a globetrotting friend's small apartment on the corner of Nanchang Lu and Ruijin Lu. Lu, in case you haven’t had your coffee yet, is Chinese for street. I’m only a block away from Huaihai Lu, Shanghai’s version of Oxford Street, London, or stretches of Broadway in New York. It’s a wide avenue with blinking neon arches over the street (just in case you forgot you were in China) and no fewer than three Lacoste stores - one devoted solely to accessories. I’m not sure what those would be, but I’m guessing headbands and handbags, which we all need. It’s a bustling, hustling (“hello mista, you want bag-uh, watchee…lolex?”) little boulevard, originally erected by the French, and still retaining some lovely Art Deco architecture on either side. In fact, Huaihai Lu becomes ground zero of the old French Concession area of the city, and if you stray off along the tree-lined side streets you will find them to be neat, and for the most part architecturally intact. Never mind the laundry flapping outside the balconies, and draped from the branches of the august plane trees.
I’ve been apartment hunting around this area, literally high and low. You pretty much have two choices: old French architecture, or a new high rise. The place I’m staying in now is very much like a New York apartment. And by that I mean a lower Manhattan apartment: small, crowded, old, and bursting with flavor. Yesterday as I was coming into the wide open, unlocked building, an old lady was standing patiently by the entrance enjoying some late winter sun on her wrinkly red face; taking a breather before attempting the steps with her five plastic grocery bags. As I approached I smiled at her and she squinted at me evenly. I know from living in Chinatown in New York that people can be funny about accepting things without being able to return anything, so I hesitated, smiled, and then was about to head up when she started pointing to the bags on the ground and shouting (or it seemed like shouting) something. She pointed up the stairs and held up three fingers; OK, they go to the third floor. Being a good boy I picked them up and started up the stairs while she sat down there chuckling and catching her breath. What the hell, I’m new to the building, and as my friend told me: “China is all about relationships”.
So that’s one relationship I got going. Another one is with Hanson Chu, the young go-getter at the Starbuck’s down at the end of my block, who loves flexing his English skills with me. “Goodamorning Mista Chon, how are a you a doing today?” Bless him, he’s very efficient too; starts firing up that large Americano with steamed milk as soon as he sees me walking in. “You a will have-a-cinnamon a bun today make-a warm?”
I will indeed. Hanson has a wiry little frame and sharp features, accentuated by black rimmed glasses and a Rubber Soul era Lennonesque mop of pitch black hair. He seems to always have a smile curling at the corners of his mouth, which makes me want to joke with him. But it must only be a physical feature, because like most Shanghaiese I’ve met, he’s serious as cancer. So the other day when I said, “Hanson, I think I’ll have the steak tar tar today, and a double mocha caramel frappuccino – extra whipped cream” (complete with facial broad take) he looked a bit panic stricken. “Accuse me sir?” He looked mortified – that he either didn’t understand me or didn’t know something on the menu. “It’s OK Hanson, I’m joking” I said. Blank stare. I smiled again to assuage his fears, “I was only making a joke” I repeated. Blank stares from all the staff behind the counter. Grasping at straws, I almost broke into Thai English (“I joking you”) but I guess he understood, because I got my regular order, but that was the end of the ribbing.
I’m also starting to fall in love with the English names that everyone, and I mean everyone has in Shanghai. A few months ago when I came here to visit for the first time, I stayed at the well intentioned Pacific Suites Hotel on Shaanxi Lu, where the front desk alone was enough to let me know that the Chinese are serious about their English prenoms. There was Victoria Lu in guest relations, Simon Lim was hooking up my internet connection, and Blakely Kwan (a guy) was on point, making sure I woke up on time each morning. But the cake-taker had to be my man Speed Guo at the front desk. That’s right, Speed; a most efficient young chap, and strictly business. At one point when I had a bit of trouble with my debit card (what do you mean it’s not reading my Thai debit card?!) he looked me square in the eye and said “Maybe you have no money”. Now normally I would have to take offense at such a statement (true or otherwise) but I knew he was just being Chinese and stating the entirely possible.
When I was DJ’ing in Hong Kong last year I read about a top fashion designer named, wait for it…Pacino Wan, and that’s been my favorite ever since. And that would probably be the end-all and be-all, except for the fact that we’ve been in the middle of interviewing staff, and last week a kid named Volcano applied for a bartending job. Volcano Ho. Amazingly he didn’t get hired. I would have hired him for the name alone. Oh, and a cheeky, be-quiffed young upstart named Frankie Chu came in for a waiter job and said he’d been living and working in Dublin recently. When he came back for the second interview he asked the Head Chef and GM, “What’s the crack boys?” He was hired, and last Friday I bumped into him on the street, and making small talk I asked what he was up to for the night. He answered that he was “going out for a few jars with the lads”. Why I oughtta…
I’m starting to have a very bad relationship with Shanghai drivers, who are like New York drivers on crystal meth. Since I’ve been here (two weeks) I’ve seen four accidents that resulted in fights, and at least five or six minor scuffles (no fisticuffs, just pushing and yelling). The general rule of the roads in Asia is ‘might is right’, and after living in India and Thailand I’ve gotten used to it. The bus takes precedence over the car, the car can run down the motorbike, which will take out a bicycle, and on down to you. But in those countries an accident is basically a time-out, and everybody stops to have a look, take sides, kibbutz, etc. If there’s a victim everyone helps out. But the other evening I was walking along the street when I heard a ‘thump’ and quick screech of tires followed by a crashing noise; sure enough a town car had hit a cyclist, sending him airborne fifteen feet, where he landed in the gutter against a phone booth, dazed. So what did the guy in the car do? He got out, looked at the front of his car to assess damage, and proceeded to go over and start yelling at the cyclist, winding up for a kick, when the poor guy on the ground let out a pathetic groan and he held back (no doubt weighing the potential headache if the guy bought it then and there). But he continued to stand there waving his finger at the unfortunate fellow, pouring out a constant stream of abuse. No trying to see if he was all right, no sympathy, no concern for anything other than his car. Luckily a cop showed up at that moment and got in between them. And still the driver was screaming at the downed cyclist, who by now was sitting up trying to piece together his broken glasses and wiping blood off his face. The cop was literally holding the driver back as he made all the usual “Hold me back” motions like he still wanted a piece of him. I don’t know how it ended up but I could hear the guy yelling two blocks away as I walked home.
Well, if Shanghai drivers are something less than simpatico, that’s nothing compared to the everyday hurly-burly of people in the streets, shops, restaurants, movies - every where really. Lest we forget China is a country of 1.3 billion people, and at least 26 million of them are in Shanghai, so it’s kinda every man for himself really. Every woman too. On my second day in town I stopped at a local bakery to hook up the morning victuals, and as it was full of mostly old ladies buying bread and cakes I waited for them to be served first. I waited patiently, taking in the smell of freshly baked bread and watching the mad yelling of the ladies, who were in fact merely talking to each other in Shanghaiese volume. And I waited. And kept waiting some more, noticing that the line didn’t seem to be moving. Then I felt a nudge, and a hunched over, grey haired octogenarian was squeezing determinedly between me and the counter with a bag of croissants. She never looked at me or said anything, but just kept her head down and burrowed on until she got past me in the queue. Another lady, this one with a chubby brown face and a big box of pastries, got next to me and then (quite deftly) wedged her way under my arm until she was also in front of me; and then put her box up over the shorter lady in front of her and onto the counter, yelling at the cashier to ring her up (I assume). And there I was, mouth agape and taking it all in - and while I did that two more ladies pushed past me, the second actually head butting me from behind, which I’m sure was unintentional. It took me a minute or two, and then I got all hot under the collar, muttering “excuse me!” to absolutely no one, as I’m sure no one in the room spoke any English. And with no alternative, I finally got into the spirit of things and threw a few elbows (which cleared a path) and a head feint and I was in; just me and the cashier face to face, with a roiling sea of grannies pushing up behind me. And I’m thinking: I’m gonna have to do this every day?
Speaking of aunties, I had my first encounter with a Chinese ayi today. Ayi’s are cleaning ladies, and everyone has one. They practically come with the apartment in Shanghai. Rob’s ayi (literally “Auntie”) comes on Wednesdays, which I’d forgotten, and around 11 a.m. this morning, as I was sitting at the computer in all my glory (yesterday’s boxers, socks, and not much else) I heard a click at the door and then the jingling of keys. It took me a moment to register who it might be, as no one else has keys. But it was too late; just as I remembered about the ayi and thought to make a mad dash into the bathroom; she was already inside, looking at me and smiling. Laughing actually, and saying “Nihao!” Um, Hello to you too Ayi…but meanwhile I’m sitting there in my mohair body armor. But she couldn’t have cared less, and just started tidying up and chattering away in some undecipherable dialect. Unfortunately she started cleaning the bathroom first, so my shower was out. I took this opportunity to quickly throw a shirt on and turn off the computer. Eventually I got in there and had a shower as she quickly tidied up, did a load of laundry, made the bed, and asked (through a combination of Chinese, English, and charades) if I had any shopping to do or bills she needed me to go pay. You go girl. And I’ll tell you something else about Rob’s ayi; keep it under your hat, but (to my horror) she’s definitely younger than me. I wonder what the Chinese word for cousin is?
Finally, on the advice of a few friends who live here I decided to check out the antiques market last Sunday, thinking I might score a cool coffee table or hat stand for my new place – once I get one that is. So I headed out around noon and decided to walk, as the first hint of spring was wooing the dingy window panes, throwing heat and light into the apartment. But spring can be a dishonest lover, and foolishly I ventured out with only a very stylish, but light windbreaker on. The first few blocks down the absolutely rammed Huaihai Lu were fine, but then the March wind kicked in and I realized that, among other things, I could use a hat. Stubbornly I plowed on, and adding to my misery was the teeming mob of Sunday shoppers, idlers, and incessantly honking drivers. It was Bakery Shop II, the sequel. I was getting pushed, pulled, nudged, and stepped on (in the form of a few from-behind ‘flat tires’) from every direction, and no one seemed to take any notice of it. No “excuse me” or “sorry” or anything…just head down and keep on keepin’ on.
So I picked up the pace (when in Rome) which had the added benefit of warming me up a bit. But I was having some private, burning resentments, I can tell you. I started to see not happy, laughing people out enjoying a false spring day; not happy go lucky school kids racing around playing keep away with a stolen cap; not dawdling couples window shopping, no! I saw pushy, me-first, rude Shanghaiese – and suddenly I became belligerent myself. I got ‘New York’ on ‘em, and in a New York minute, taking pleasure in leaning a bit into a much shorter man as I passed him, not so much as a “sorry” escaping from my lips. I kept my elbows right where they were and sure enough, the big guy in the black leather jacket with grey zipper sweater (Chinese middle class urban uniform) ran right into it. Oops. But if I was looking for confrontation (and I’m not sure I was) I wouldn’t get it. Everyone just kept on trudging along, as if they hadn’t just taken one in the bread basket. That was almost more maddening.
By the time I finally got to Dong Tai Lu I was in a state. I was cold, harried, and agitated. The last thing I wanted to do was get into some bargaining Olympics with a bunch of chiseling knock-off antiques dealers. I’d been forewarned of their notoriously conniving ways, and had steeled myself for battle, even if it is all merely theatre in the end. But just then I was in no mood. I cautiously (hands clasped behind back, sunglasses on, bored expression) perused the various stalls that line both sides of the street, not wanting to commit to anything. I knew that a mere step into any stall would prompt the beginnings of the ‘Asian hard sell’. I saw a funky little red painted table that caught my eye, and when I asked how much it was the old lady quoted such a ridiculous price that I decided to fix her wagon and not even bargain. As I walked away she was yelling “How much-uh?” over and over, astonished that I wouldn’t even play the game a little. I just wasn’t in the mood.
Further down the lane, almost at the end, I noticed a well-lit, clean looking little tea shop with no one inside. It suddenly occurred to me that I had been living in China for over a week and hadn’t bought any tea yet. Worse, I had been drinking some inferior Sri Lankan stuff (with milk no less) that I found at the City Market, which caters almost entirely to westerners. This struck me as somehow absurd, and so I decided to go buy some tea for the house. When I walked into this shop I was first struck by its mellow atmosphere, quite a contrast to the mad shouting and bargaining outside. At first glance it seemed like there was no one there, but the door was open, and then a very calm little man came out from the back, where he obviously was living. He asked me in pretty good English how I was, and it was so nice to hear something other than a hustle that I instantly loved him and his warm little shop. Then his wife came out with their new baby, and she brought him over so I could have a look. It was so simple and friendly that my former mood melted away and I found myself playing with the baby, and in fact it was a very cute kid. But all Chinese babies look cute to me, I must admit. Anyway, I asked if he had any Oolong tea, and he smiled and proceeded to tell me a bit about Oolong tea, the grades he had, and then elaborately prepare four different kinds of Oolong for me. If you’ve never done the Chinese tea ceremony, it’s really lovely, and you can see how important tea is to the culture; how lovingly they treat it. First he let me smell the fresh tea, then he put it into a very small ceramic pot that had been pre-rinsed with scalding hot water. Then the tea went in, and then more boiling water until it was full. Then the lid went on and more hot water poured on top of that. The first pot was poured out entirely, over various ceramic figures representing the animals of the Chinese zodiac. Then it was re-filled and left to steep for half a minute or so. Only now did he pour out a tiny cupful for me, and this first grade had the aroma of flowers and smelled heavenly, but the taste wasn’t sweet or flowery at all, and indeed had a nice kick to it. He repeated this three more times with different types of Oolong, and then again with some green tea and a nice black tea that had no name, according to my host.
In the end I bought the floral Oolong, some green tea, and a bit of the no-name black. All of it wrapped tight and packaged in very nice silk pattern boxes. He even threw in some jasmine tea for me to try for free. On the wall was a menu of the teas he had and at the bottom it read: ‘Dear customer, if you need the more tea you can call me and I will deliver to you house, the charge is not more. If you not satisfied with tea goods you can exchange or no pay’.
And you know I will. Talk about attitude readjustment, I walked out of there with my faith in humanity firmly restored. Suddenly nothing bothered me, and I looked on with amusement at a French guy trying to buy a porcelain pitcher by an elaborate series of ‘final’ walkings away, only to come back and punch a new ‘final’ number into the shopkeeper’s calculator. Indeed, a scuffling crowd of people pushing in past me to buy some freshly cut pineapple seemed quaint and even picturesque. I plowed in and bought one myself.
As the sun went down I hopped in a cab and confidently proclaimed my address (just about all I know how to say in Chinese so far) and to my utter surprise the driver understood me on the first go. Things were looking up. We stopped at a red light and I looked up at the street lights swaying in the chilly March breeze, framed by a silhouette of crooked Shanghai tree branches. I suddenly was back in a scene from my youth, on a street very much like this one; somber, tree-lined, and windy. It was so familiar, and I dreamily tried to place it until I pinched myself and realized I was in China. Then the lights changed and as I stared through the branches at the lights I knew I had seen it before. It’s a very small world after all.
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