Don’t tell my mother
For years, I have ridden the Fung Wah bus between NYC and Boston in abject terror, wondering whether everyone in China drives like that, at mach 10 with a cell phone attached to their ears, screaming in Mandarin as they veer from lane to lane. Beijing traffic was surprisingly sedate, so I wondered if it was just the Chinese in America.
It isn’t. There are moments in travel when you think, Yes! I am a genius! I can travel for the rest of my life and I won’t ever regret it! These are usually moments when you are lying on a beach, sipping a margarita. Then there are moments when you think JesusMaryandJosephwhatthehellwasIthinkingtakingthistripIcouldbeonmycouch
rightnowwatchingtheDailyShowandeatingAnniesmacaroniandinsteadIamgoingtodie
rightnowandnoonewilleverknow. During these moments, your life begins to flash before your eyes, and instead of stopping at the parts when you looked really good lke high school or your wedding day, you are stuck in junior high when you had glasses, braces and a hideous Sun-in mullet (shut up, it was the 80s). These are often moments when someone else is driving.
We had one of these moments in Chengdu with our taxi driver. Thinking we were supremely clever, we eschewed our hostels taxi service because it would have cost 70 yuan and our taxi in was only 48. Our first taxi refused to take us to the airport, so we gladly popped into the second.
I spent the first half of the ride trying to detangle the snarls from my hair, so I was distracted and didnt notice the outrageous speed at which we were traveling. Unfortunately, I detangled it all before the ride ended and started paying attention. We were weaving in and out of lanes, around rickshaws and motorbikes in alleys and spending a great deal of time in oncoming traffic while we were in town. Then we got on the highway, where the driver increased his speed to 140km/h, which to the Yanks is 90mph. I would like to add that there were no seatbelts in the back seat, so I was gripping the door handle with enough force to break a bone. The best part was when there was traffic in the right and left lanes, so the driver decided to pass them both on the SHOULDER. I was giving T looks that would melt his brain (because its obviously his fault that we ended up in a taxi with a psychopath) and it was the first time of the trip that I thought it might have been prudent to just stay home, especially when the bill came to 65 yuan.
The second experience we had like this was also in a taxi, going to the Shanghai airport for our flight to Bangkok. The taxi picked us up at the Holiday Inn, and started out okay. Then when we got onto the highway, he too started driving like a maniac. So, I started sticking my face right behind his head to see how fast he was going. I thought I unnerved him, because he slowed down to a reasonable speed. Then, he slowed down even more, to the point where we were going about 35mph on the highway, and everyone else was going 70. I might add that we were in the passing lane, for some reason I don’t understand. Then, the car started to jerk, and would speed up, then lurch back down again. T and I thought we were running out of gas, but now were pretty sure he was just screwing with us. We managed to jerk our way to the airport, when the driver emerged with a giant smile to help us with our bags. Dude, are you kidding me?!
With a little bit of practice, these guys could be the star drivers for the Fung Wah. All they need now is the phone.
Old dudes love me
In our Lonely Planet, we had read that Chinese people are somewhat stand-offish and reserved, and not generally known either for their warmth or friendliness. In Hong Kong, I found the locals very pushy and loud, so I wasn’t particularly looking forward to meeting the mainland Chinese. With this in mind, we prepared for two weeks of frosty relations with the locals. Again, the book and I were both way off. I came to realize that people have to be pushy to survive in a nation of one billion people, and that most of the people we met were warm and patient and kind—especially considering that we spoke no Chinese and probably jumped all over their last nerve. Here are some of the lovely people we met in China:
-In Beijing, T and I were getting into a taxi when I saw an old man on the sidewalk waving to me. I waved back at him, and he gave me a thumbs up. When I did it back to him, he waved me away, as if to say, “Ach! Crazy girl!”
-On Christmas night, we were getting a taxi back to the hostel when our driver suddenly held up a photo of his baby son, and asked if he looked like him. We said yes, of course, and he started talking to Mara about babies in America. Then, he asked if we had any American dollars, because he is collecting money to give to his son. We told him we had some at the hostel, and we could give it to him if he waited. In return, he said he would decrease the fare. When T ran to get the money for him, the driver turned around to look back at me, and said “Welcome to Beijing” with a big smile. When we gave him the money, with some Cambodian riel and Thai baht included, he beamed with excitement. It may have been the best Christmas present we’ve given anyone in a while.
-Another day in Beijing, when T and I were standing outside the hostel eating our egg pancakes in the cold, a young girl in her early 20s walked by. She paused as she passed us, and then said “Welcome to China!”
-In Chengdu, we got quite a lot of interested looks (not stares, just interest) from the locals and lots of kids saying hello. Eventually, T said to me that no one had pointed at him, and he was really surprised. Sure enough, that night, as we walked home from dinner, we passed two young boys in the street. They started walking faster to keep up with us, and eventually pointed at T. I almost died laughing. Then, they started daring each other to speak to us. Finally, one of them said “Hello! How are you?” When we told them we were fine, they burst into giggles. When they recovered, they asked what our names were. We told them, and we walked in silence for a while. When we turned to go to the hostel, they cried out “Goodbye!” together.
-There are a lot of cute kids in China. In Beijing or Shanghai, when I smiled at a parent or a grandparent with a cute baby, they either ignored me or smiled back. In Chengdu, however, if I smiled at them, they would turn the baby (or child) around so I could get a closer look, and if it was a child, they would make it say hello. This was probably really annoying for the kids, but I loved it.
-Mara had warned us that people in Shanghai weren’t as friendly as in Beijing, which we assumed was true because it was a bigger city. Thus, we were surprised when the first person we met on the street was totally adorable. We were looking for the Indian embassy and T asked a girl on the street how to find it. To our surprise, she spoke fluent English and she told us she would walk with us even though we were going in a completely different direction. The boys buggered off together, and I was left talking to her. She was very sweet and very interested in America. When I told her that we lived in New York, she told me she had a good friend who lived there. When I asked if her friend liked it, she hid her face from me and cried, “No! It is not a good friend! It is my boyfriend!” It ws so cute, I wanted to hug her. She walked us all the way to the embassy and seemed to want to hang out with us longer, but we said goodbye. It was surprising to have someone offer to help us with nothing in return, but I think she just wanted to practice her English.
-And, the grand finale: I am beloved by old dudes in Chengdu. When we were at the teahouse, we started to notice that all the old workmen on the street would walk past and smile at me. Then we noticed that it wasnt just workmen—a rickshaw driver on the street actually blew me a kiss. Finally, I am appreciated somewhere other than the streets of Harlem (that came out totally wrong)! I am HOT on the streets of Chengdu! T better watch himself—if I get sick of him, I am moving to Chengdu, where I can find myself a husband who is already older than I am, so that I dont look like an old haggard witch in comparison (this is an important consideration for Western women dating young Chinese guys, apparently. It seems that white girls age much faster than Chinese men. Keep it in mind.)
Everyone loves a candied rat
Like others in my family, I grew up believing that American Chinese food is far more palatable than actual Chinese food. I’m not sure where this belief started, but it is a dirty, DIRTY LIE. Chinese food is some of the most delicious food I have ever eaten in my life, and the American version is about as tasty as saltines in comparison. Getting food in China was both our biggest obstacle and our greatest reward. Ordering it was often frustrating and embarrassing (its never cute to be the stupid white people), but it was always good. Always. Even at the hideous McDonald’s of doom in Shanghai, and that wasn’t even Chinese food.
One of the things we noticed first about Chinese food is their love of food on sticks. You can get dozens of foods on a stick in China, which endeared the country to me immediately. You can get meat on a stick, sugary fruit on a stick—even a candied rat on a stick. Yes, you heard me correctly. One of the most popular foods we saw in Beijing was a candied rat on a stick. Ew, not a real candied rat, but toffee fashioned into the shape of a rat on a stick. Sadly, we never tried it, because it took us a while to realize it was toffee, and then we stopped seeing them!
Other noteworthy eating experiences in China:
- Before Mara arrived in Beijing and showed us all the delicious local food we didn’t know how to order, we had an adventurous night and went out to a nearby restaurant. The restaurant was full of old men in a halo of smoke, talking as though their voiceboxes had been removed. We tried ordering some food, and found one of the most hilarious menus I have ever seen, including:
Old adopted mother’s fried kidney
Pimple soup
Explode a chicken
United States hook speculation
Lotus leaf in a small fry
Family food that goes well with wine
The peasant family cooks vegetables ingeniously
The fragrant flowered garlic fries pig liver
The open country growth mushroom fries the potato to silver filament
Hot bull’s penis
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When Mara arrived, she introduced us to the egg pancake—on Christmas Day! It was perhaps the best Christmas present ever. As the egg pancake is street food and we have no clue how to read Chinese, we would never have found them on our own. This is how the egg pancake is made: on a circular hotplate, the cook spreads a very thin layer of batter, then cracks an egg on it, while smearing the egg around the batter so it doesn’t clump. Then, she flips the whole thing over, smears some sauce on the other side and adds scallions and coriander before putting what looked like a waffle on top. She cuts the waffle into three pieces, folds the pancake around it, and puts it in a plastic bag. Mara told us that when she first discovered these, she ate them every day for weeks. We dream of one day being so lucky.
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In Chengdu, we were wandering the city looking for a place with an English menu when we went into a restaurant to ask. Instead of answering us, they ushered us to a table with a big hole in the middle and sat us down. We assumed it was a hotpot restaurant, but there was still no menu. Two girls came over and tried to speak English to us while handing us an order form to fill out. Since we are, as we mentioned, ignunt foreigners who don’t even know how to speak Chinese, one of them finally yelled out “Turkey!” And we nodded. Then a man came over, looked at the food section of T’s book and pointed to chicken. Okay. Then he filled out the form for us, changed one of the entries to a lower price, and disappeared.
A few minutes later, one of the girls returned with a giant pot full of broth and a half a raw chicken. She turned on the heat on the table, put the chicken pot onto it, and left. I almost cried. What the hell do we do with a half a raw chicken in some broth? And how do you eat it with chopsticks??! Fortunately, she soon returned, took the chicken away, and came back with it all chopped into pieces. After that, hotpot ended up being fairly easy. At first, the women would come over and dump the assorted condiments into the pot for us, but after a while, we were able to do it ourselves (that’s what 3 masters degrees between us has gotten us—thank you, higher education!). It turns out hotpot is pretty good, though I wasn’t keen to repeat the experience again too quickly.
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Another night in Chengdu (the night we asked for a Sichuan restaurant with an English menu), we decided to eat local again, in the hopes of some spicy food. The woman at the front desk who laughed at us wrote down some good local dishes on a piece of paper, and directed us to a local hotel. At the hotel, they clearly thought we were brain dead, showing up with a piece of paper with Sichuan foods written on it, and then staring blankly at them when they spoke to us. It’s my personal opinion that the woman wrote “Please feed these idiots some food so that they don’t come back and bother me again with their ridiculous requests.”
Whatever she wrote, it worked, more or less. They had a photo menu at the restaurant (the saving grace of every stupid non-Chinese-speaking tourist) and we were able to indicate more or less what we wanted. And it was good.
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On our penultimate day in Chengdu, we walked around the city for ages, searching for a restaurant recommended by our book, described as being a tiny doorway with a long flight of stairs. Uh, thanks. Needless to say, we couldn’t find it. And so, we headed for McDonald’s again when we noticed a number of Chinese fast food options in the food court. We headed toward the one with the best photo menu, and then a miracle happened.
A young guy with a round baby face popped out of the restaurant and said “Hello! Welcome! Please come in!” I practically French kissed him, I was so happy to see someone in a restaurant who spoke English. He took us to the side of the queue and helped us order. We ordered the egg-tofu things we had in Beijing, and some spicy chicken and the milk, made at the restaurant. Our new friend stood with us in the line, speaking his beautiful English and Chinese, and I think I spied a halo above his sunny little face.
We found a table, and waited for the food to be delivered. When it was, we each got the main course, the milk, rice and some interesting salad, and some soup—and, of course, chopsticks. The food itself was okay, but the service was fantastic. Our friend was circling the restaurant, checking in on all the tables and he came past ours a number of times to make sure we didn’t need anything else, and that the food was good.
When we told him he spoke beautiful English, he beamed and did what all Chinese people do when they get compliments—he shook his head and looked profoundly embarrassed. We were thanking him compulsively, and every time, he would say the same thing: “It is my pleasure to help you!” Oh, little Sichuan man with the baby face, it was our pleasure to be helped by you.
So shiny!
After a particularly delightful taxi ride which shall be discussed later, T and I headed to Shanghai, where we were to stay with Ian and Cara, our friends from Melbourne who were transferred to China and who generously let us stay with them for free at the Holiday Inn in Pudong and sleep in their room and eat at their restaurants and use their computer and watch their TV and drag them all over the city. In short, they should be sainted. They met us at the airport with a sign that will only make sense if you know my father.
From the airport, which T got all horned up about (something to do with the beams…I’m not really sure, but I took pictures), we got in the Holiday Inn’s taxi to town. About halfway in, we got our first views of Shanghai. I was staring out the window at all the bright and shiny lights when Ian told me to close my mouth. Shanghai is fancy! It’s full of really new and modern buildings in a dizying array of colors. I had thought T would be the one to get really excited about the architecture there, but instead, it was me. Who knew?
The first thing we did on our first morning in Shanghai was to go to the Indian consulate to try to get our visas. We got a taxi across town, which dropped us off outside the Sheraton, waving in the direction of the embassy. The concierge at the Sheraton wrote the address of the consulate, and with the help of a local, we found the building. Which was closed. T started nosing around and found what looked like a service entrance, and they let us in. Sadly, our jubilance lasted for about 10 minutes, until a very stern Chinese man told us the visas take 5 days and no, you cannot expedite them.
And so, we got on the subway with Ian and headed to People’s Park. A word about the subways in China: they are really, really good. In Beijing and Shanghai, they have just opened new and sparkly lines with near-silent trains and big TV screens that show the time of the next arriving train and a camera shot of the tracks and train. Chinese subways are also really, really busy. In Beijing, we ended up taking one of the new lines to get to dinner, and it was absolutely crammed full of people. Mara, Neil, T and I were all smashed into each other inside the car, and then when the doors opened, we were swept up in a wave of people walking to another line. In five years in New York, I never saw a rush hour like this. Neil looked at me and said, “This line only opened up two weeks ago. Where were all these people before?” Good question.
When Ian told me we were going to a park, I expected something like Central Park. This was stupid. Instead, I got something a little more like Times Square, my least favorite place on earth. People everywhere, with Starbucks and McDonald’s everywhere, with people trying to sell you stuff everywhere. However, since this was a new city, at least I was interested, instead of breaking out into hives and having a meltdown. We walked up and down the road for a while, and then ended up going to McDonald’s again. This was a terrible mistake, on a par with invading Iraq or buying sarongs in Bali. I have never seen so many people so desperate for a Big Mac. The boys waited in line for the food, and sent me to get a table. Ha. The way it seemed to work was that people staked out specific areas of the restaurant and then stood near the table most likely to leave and gave them the stinkeye. I tried it, albeit not with a particular table, and it actually worked. But I felt dirty afterward.
After McDonald’s, we needed to find a bathroom. Despite the fact that Mara told me there are fewer squat toilets in Shanghai than the rest of the country, I had my worst squat toilet experience. Let me say this: squat toilet with no door, covered in blood. I did not use it, and I am still recovering from the horror. To comfort me, Ian took me to the Radisson to pee instead. Never in my life have I been so in love with western toilets.
Not all of Shanghai was as adventurous as our first day. That night was New Year’ Eve, which was actually a welcome relief after what shall henceforth be known as The Bloody Toilet Experience. We went to a tapas bar in the French Concession with Ian’s boss and some of his colleagues. It was lovely food, and a very relaxed atmosphere, given that Cara is pregnant and couldn’t drink heavily.
On New Year’s Day, we slept late, and then went to Ian’s boss’ apartment for brunch. He is a chef, so the food was delicious, with Dutch and French cheeses and waffles and bagels and all kinds of meat. After lying low at the hotel for most of the afternoon, we ventured out to the Bund to check out the buildings. We went shopping at the Super Brand Mall and then went upstairs for dinner at a place called South Beauty. South Beauty was on the top floor of the shopping center, with views of the river and the shiny, shiny buildings. We did not sit in these windows, since we didn’t have a reservation. This might have made me sad, had the food not been so exquisitely delicious. Oh mama, did we chow down at South Beauty. There was Ma Po tofu and crispy shrimps and some shredded pork and some duck and some dumplings and some pork buns and I have never been so happy in my whole life eating so much food and I never wanted to leave. No, for real. Never. I wanted to sleep on the floor and eat Ma Po tofu all day and all night.
But we eventually left, gorged full of (surprisingly cheap) food, back out into the cold. We walked down to the river and checked out all the buildings. They were so pretty and the food was so good and I was so happy.
The next day, we went to meet Mara before she went to Cambodia on a glamorous assignment. Mara lives in an adorable little neighborhood, in an adorable little apartment, like a real expat. She also gives everyone slippers to wear when they come to visit. We drank tea with her for a while, and then she took us for a walk. She lives near a very popular shopping street (with H + M!), and before we dropped her off to buy some glamorous assignment clothes, we bought some custart tarts. Custard tarts are good.
After we left her, we walked and walked to the old city, where we meant to go to Yuyuan Gardens. Instead, we had lunch. We waited in line for ages at a dumpling restaurant until a Frenchman told us how to jump the queue. We did it, but only because Cara was pregnant and the baby was hungry! (It wasnt really jumping the queue…it was going to the more expensive section, which had a shorter line.) And then we ate dumplings. In Shanghai, dumplings are filled with soup, which is delicious. Note to self: soup-filled dumplings are also hot as hell if you eat them too quickly and will burn your tongue and impair your ability to taste for at least four days. Yet, it is worth the pain. After the old city, we walked back to the subway and had dinner at the hotel with Ian’s childhood friend Alex who is also living in Shanghai.
On our final day in the city, poor exhausted pregnant Cara had class and Ian had work, so T and I were unchaperoned. Even without escorts, we managed to find the right subway stop and we went to the French Concession. The French Concession looks, as you might imagine, French, and is full of charming old colonial buildings. It is also full of many tourists and many tourist restaurants and bars. The upside to this, of course, is that there was another South Beauty. Since the creperie Cara suggested no longer existed, we had no other choice! MA PO TOFU FOR LUNCH! I am pleased to report that the food was just as good as the previous visit, though the views are slightly less spectacular.
Despite only being in Shanghai for a few days and not seeing many of the tourist sites, we did manage to figure out the cardinal rule of China: there’s always a bus. When crossing the street, even if you have a green light, it’s a wise idea to wait just a second, because there will inevitably be a giant bus careening through the intersection, headed straight for you. I don’t know whether or not these buses will stop for pedestrians, because I didn’t think it wise to test them. If you want to try, let me know how it goes.
Apparently, there is a debate among expats about which city is more authentically Chinese: Beijing or Shanghai. People in Beijing argue that Beijing is more authentically Chinese and that Shanghai residents are somehow cheating. I can see how this argument might be true, but I have to say that given the choice, I would definitely choose Shanghai. It might be brand-new and lacking in”local flavor,” and it might be more Western than Beijing, but oh, was it pretty.
No, we don’t speak Chinese. Yes, it is hilarious.
After our visit to Beijing, T and I decided to go to Chengdu, in Sichuan. The main reason for going to Chengdu was the pandas, though we also wanted to try out Sichuan food. The world’s largest panda breeding research center is outside Chengdu, and I figured that when in China, see pandas. Sichuan food is renowned for being both spicy and delicious, so we figured we had a win-win situation.
Mara had told us that Chengdu was one of her favorite cities in China and her Taiwanese friend agreed. He told us we should be spending far more than 3 nights there…we should consider three months! Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. As a city, Chengdu seemed rather small—which it is, at 4 million. Small = quiet and fairly relaxed, which we liked.
We were staying at a guesthouse Mara recommended, which she sold me on by telling me there was a golden retriever. When we checked in, I heard a dog barking and the girl behind the desk, who always spoke in a VERY EXCITED VOICE told me, “NO DOG HERE! DOG NEXT DOOR!” When I looked sad, she said “WE HAVE GOLDEN RETRIEVER!” And my heart leaped, only to have her follow it up with “GOLDEN RETRIEVER NOT HERE! TOO COLD HERE FOR DOG!” Um, where does the dog go in winter? Miami?
Our guesthouse was also notable because it had a bathroom inside the room. And for all of you who think, “Duh, the bathroom is always inside the room,” let me clarify: the bathroom was separated from the bedroom by half a glass wall. This meant that not only could we hear everything the other one was doing in the bath, we could almost see it. Worst of all, the shower was a typical Asian-style shower that just poured onto the floor, which meant the water just sat on the ground, which meant the room smelt of mushrooms ALL THE TIME.
These things were not unforgivable, however. The staff was entertaining, including the VERY EXCITED GIRL at the front desk who informed us that they had FREE INTERNET! SUPER AWESOME DEAL! which it would have been, had the internet actually worked.
We spent most of our days wandering around town, trying to find restaurants with English menus, which was virtually impossible, and going to parks to spy on the Chinese Park Phenomenon. The great news was that people in Chengdu were even friendlier than in Beijing, and they would always greet us with a beautiful smile when we managed to choke out our Chinese hellos. I loved the people in Chengdu.
We were also far more of an oddity in Chengdu than in Beijing. Lots of the people there stared at us as though they had never seen white people before. I suppose this is understandable, since the people in the city spoke way less English than in the other cities we’ve visited in China, and they probably get way fewer tourists.
The one thing people couldn’t get over was the fact that we don’t speak Chinese. Again, this is somewhat understandable. After all, what kind of a dumbass would go on vacation to a country where they don’t even speak the language? People either gave us a kind of “Uh, ok” look when we said we didn’t speak it, or they just laughed in our faces.
Case in point: the nighttime front desk girl at the hostel. One night, we went to her and said we wanted Sichuan food. She nodded, understanding. Then T said we wanted Sichuan food with an English menu. She looked at him as if he was dancing around naked, shouting “I am the king of the ginger people!” and then she cracked up. It took her a few minutes to recover from our hilarious joke. “A Sichuan restaurant with an English menu!,” she finally managed to gasp, and then she stopped laughing and severely shook her head no. OK then.
The language barrier was our biggest problem in Chengdu, and it got a little exhausting after a while. We ended up giving up on local food one day, and ate at McDonald’s again, where a table of three little kids sat behind us, staring and giggling and daring each other to say something. When I smiled at the little boy, he got up from the table and literally ran away. RUN FROM THE GIANT WHITE WOMAN! WITH THIGHS LIKE THAT, SHE WILL SURELY EAT YOU! When we left at the end of the meal, they all smiled beautifically at us and chimed out HELLO! Apparently, were way less scary when were leaving.
Despite the fact that our Chinese sucked, people were remarkably kind and patient with us and never lost their temper, which I found amazing, since I was even pissing myself off with our inferior language skills.
The best discovery we made in Chengdu was the teahouse. Sichuan is apparently known for its teahouses, in which old men and boys spend hours playing cards or mah jong and drinking tea. There was one outside our hostel that we decided to try on the second day. We chose it because of its proximity to the hostel, the fact that there were already two Westerners there, and because they had an enormous and gorgeous German Shepherd (apparently, the dog next door).
Teahouses are just about the best invention ever. For $1, you can sit around and watch the life going by, as you drink unlimited tea. You can sit there all day if you want, FOR ONE DOLLAR. You order your tea, and they bring it to you in a little cup, alongside a giant thermos of hot water which you use to refill the cup as you wish.
We went every day and watched the life on our little alleyway. There is a lot of renovation going on to bring the street back to its former glory, so there were always workmen walking past and there were the card players and the other people walking by and, of course, the dog.
I’m pretty sure that dog was the smartest one I have ever seen. At about 5pm every day, they would start setting up for the barbeque outside, bringing out tents and cooking equipment. The dog would go nuts and would immediately leap up from his sleep and run around, barking. He would try to bite the legs of the tents to try to help, and would run circles around the guys setting up. When it was all done, he would sink back into the ground and relax. Man, I loved that dog.
All I want for Christmas is a baby panda
Since I gave T the Great Wall for Christmas, it was only fair that he give me some pandas in return. Fair deal, no? And so it was that we went to Chengdu to the Panda Breeding Research Center, the biggest one in the world with more than 60 pandas.
Before I saw the pandas in person, I was excited, but not overwhelmed. I was never a huge panda fan growing up—I had a cousin who worshipped them, but they were never necessarily my favorite bears. Polar bears, on the other hand…
Anyway, I wanted to see them, because as T said when we were trying to decide between Xian and Chengdu, the terracotta soldiers aren’t going anywhere. The pandas might.
Dude, pandas are CUTE. The big dopey ones are pretty sweet, gnawing away on their bamboo and lolling around on the ground.
But ohmygod, the babies. I’m pretty sure baby pandas are the cutest things I have ever seen. Unfortunately for you, no cameras were allowed in the nursery, so you will just have to take my word for it. They are tiny little balls of black and white fluff, and I LOVE THEM! There was one that was riding on a rockinghorse, and two that were sleeping and another one that was hanging out in the bars of his cage, playing with a curtain, but then he was stuck and he couldn’t get down and it was all I could do not to kick in that glass, grab him and run. Sadly, my knee was still gimpy from the Great Wall of Doom, and I knew T wouldn’t run away with him for me. You know, rules and laws and all that stuff. Blah blah Chinese gulag.
It seems that last year, two sister pandas gave birth to twins on the same day, and I’m pretty sure those are the four we saw. There were some others in another room, sleeping in cribs, and they were pretty adorable as well, if a little boring with all that sleeping. We could have held them, but T kept giving me the stinkeye when I suggested it, asking, “Do you really want to be THAT tourist?” I decided to be sensible and not spend $200+ to hold the baby pandas, but not because of him—because $200 is a lot of money.
We got there early, at our guidebook’s recommendation, which was a wise move, because for ages we were the only ones there. And then we weren’t.
A Very Expat Christmas
We got a wonderful Christmas present on Christmas Eve day when our friend Mara the Superstar arrived from Shanghai to entertain us for a few days. Mara the Superstar is my friend from J-school, and she is fabulous in countless ways. If she was anyone else, I would be forced to hate her for this fabulousness, but I cant because she is just too damn cute. Not only does she look like a love child of Charlize Theron and Scarlett Johansson, but she is from Minnesota (I have only met one person I didnt like from Minnesota, and Im pretty sure she was a secret transplant from somewhere else), and she is one of most accomplished friends from journalism school. More importantly, she does not play the wretched journalistic game known as I Am Better Than You And Let Me Tell You Why, listing all the magazines who hire her to write for them. She also lives in China!, is fluent in Chinese and Spanish, and came all the way to Beijing for Christmas to play with us. In short, I love Mara.
Now that my ode to Mara is over, I should tell you about our holiday. Mara arrived in the morning and I spent a few hours catching up with her while poor, poor T suffered endlessly in the unreasonably hard bed (in which he was still able to sleep until 11am). When he awoke, Mara gave him his favorite present: a plastic pork mobile phone ornament, which he cherishes and carries everywhere, despite the fact that he has no phone. In the afternoon, we checked out the Forbidden City and had lunch at McDonalds. Note: Chinese McDonalds is really good. As good as Italian McDonalds, which I didnt think was possible.
For dinner on Christmas Eve, Mara organized a Beijing duck dinner with a bunch of her expat friends. The assembled parties included me and T, the executive editor of a famous fashion magazine and her friend, Maras friend Neil the Engilsh teacher from Minnesota and some of his colleagues at a Beijing university, an American literary agent and his girlfriend from Maine, and a Taiwanese friend of Maras and his sister and her partner. The Taiwanese couple ordered, and we ended up eating some duck tongue (well, T did; I didnt) and fish soup and other unusual dishes that we would never have tried, and, of course, the duck, which was delicious. After dinner, we went to a nightclub. Duh. What else would you do on Christmas Eve? It turns out that Christmas Eve is one of the biggest party nights in China, and the club was packed full of people.
On Christmas morning, we slept in (as we are now old and our bodies need sufficient time to recover from going to bed at 2am) and then spent the day walking around the river with Mara. It was on this day that she introduced us to some of our favorite Chinese food: the egg pancake. I shall expand more upon this wonderful invention in a food post, but let me say that the egg pancake was &%$#@& delicious. We walked around the hutongs for a while, and then Mara took us into a local restaurant for lunch. Mara is the goddess of exquisite Chinese food. The restaurant was Sichuan, and she ordered some soup and some gorgeous dish with fried green beans and peppercorns (and I hate green beans, so trust me on this) and some other beautiful thing made of bean curd and egg. I couldnt eat fast enough!
After a few hours of walking, we met up with Neil in a coffee shop for a little while, and then we headed to dinner. Getting to dinner was easier said than done. Our nice taxi driver told us it would be quicker to take the subway than her cab, so we got off at the subway station and then walked. And walked. And walked. It turns out that Beijing is surrounded by ring roads and foreigners often wander around for hours, looking for their destination. Eventually, we found it.
Christmas dinner was with a Chinese history professor Mara knew, at a dumpling restaurant. The professor was accompanied by his wife and five attractive female former students. The professor and his wife didnt speak English, but fortunately, T and I sat next to an adorable student whose English was very good. And the food. Oh, God, the food. First of all, it just kept coming. Apparently, its Chinese custom to order way more food than is needed to show generosity. Our host was most generous. And the food was beautiful. I cant even list what we ate, but it was really, really good.
The charming girl next to us would tell us about each of the dishes as it was served, crying out FISH! or CHICKEN! or BEAN CURD! She and T got along very well, and she was very surprised to hear that he was English. She informed him that he is not so much English as American, because English people are very serious (read: stiff and repressed) and Americans are much more relaxed (read: cool and generally much more fun than Brits). She then pointed to Neil and said he looked English. Poor Neil did not look thrilled by this diagnosis. She also told me that I looked like a student, and she and her sister told me repeatedly how beautiful I was. I love China.
After dinner, the professor asked one of his students, an opera singer who studies in Scotland, to sing for us. She sang a lovely piece by Schubert and I was really moved to watch someone with such talent at such close range (though I did note that she didnt open her mouth wide enough for three fingers). After the opera singer sang, the professor goaded another student, a belly dancer who studied in Egypt, to dance for us. She was shy, so we all ended up standing up for a belly dancing lesson. I think we were pretty talentless, because she tried teaching a few moves and just ended up dancing for us anyway.
And then came the most interesting part of the night. Mara was having a discussion with the professor about the different national standards of beauty and how Westerners find Chinese women pretty, but Chinese people would find the same women ugly. Then, out of nowhere, the professor asked Neil which of the students was most attractive. Poor Neil managed to avoid the question, but then the professor asked Mara who was most attracive: T or Neil. Mara managed to sidestep as well (Ts theory is that she didnt answer because it would have been too hurtful to Neil to hear that his best friend found T so attractive) and we maneuvered the conversation to which Westerners are most attractive. The answers, obviously, were Brad Pitt, Julia Roberts, Audrey Hepburn, James Stewart and Bill Clinton. I mean, really. Everyone knows that.
In the end, our host ended up paying for all of us, despite the fact that he had never met me and T, didnt even know Neil was coming, and all four of us were ridiculously late. He was very kind and obviously generous, and gave me a wonderful impression of Chinese people.
The day didnt feel at all like Christmas, which was probably good or else we would all have spent the whole day feeling homesick. Instead, it was wildly entertaining and definitely memorable, and as Mara said, the best Christmas ever.
I left my knees on the Great Wall
I married an engineer. There. I admit it. It was never supposed to happen (I was obviously supposed to marry an Irish poet and live in a garret in Paris, but that’s hardly the point), but it did. And now I am stuck with a lifetime of talk about steel and bearings and cranes and all kinds of other stuff that I will never understand, mostly because I don’t really want to.
And so, when we started talking about changing our plans for China, it soon became obvious that we would have to go to the Great Wall. Not because it is a famous Chinese landmark and a national emblem, but because it is a famous ENGINEERING landmark. When we decided to go to Beijing instead, T got all hot and bothered about the prospect of being so close to a structure of such mammoth size and BLAH BLAH BLAH. (Keep in mind that this is a man who gets distracted when driving down the highway when he sees cool bridges. It is a terrifying experience, let me tell you.)
Because I am such a GLORIOUS wife, I gave him the Great Wall for Christmas. I also gave him the Great Wall because we are profoundly poverty stricken and carrying giant backpacks with no room for extra presents. So, T gets the wall.
We decided to do the walk from Jinshanling to Simatai. It was a 9km walk along the wall, which was only half restored. Psh, no problem! Anyone can walk for 9km, even me! After all, I climbed two glaciers of doom in New Zealand! Walking on a wall is EASY!
Would that this were the truth. It all started when we had to leave at SIX AM. SIX AM, PEOPLE! There is a reason the sun is not even awake at this hour! We climbed into a minubus, which took us to another minibus, which took us to the wall. We arrived two hours later. The two hour difference made absolutely no difference in the temperature, which was still arctic. We were immediately taken en masse to the bathrooms. I don’t know if this is too much information, but it is not an enjoyable experience using a squat toilet when it is 20 degrees. Use your imagination…that’s all I’m saying.
Upon exiting the toilets, we were immediately joined by a large band of local women. At first I thought they were going to work somewhere on the wall. I don’t know how I was so naive. They were coming to work us somewhere on the wall. They were our sellers for the day. They walked with us up to the wall, all yelling at each other in Chinese, and after a surprisingly difficult climb to the wall, they suddenly disbanded and assigned themselves to us. We were greeted by a pink-cheeked woman named Lim Pia (or some approximation thereof), who showed us some books on the wall and informed us that “At the end, you buy from me.” Deal. At least we would be spared the “you buy from her, you buy from me” nonsense.
And so we started walking. And oh my, was it pretty. Despite the frigid temperature, it was a perfect day. We were far from the ever-charming Beijing smog and could see for miles. The sun was shining and it was definitely crisp.
The wall…oh, the wall. This is the part you dont tell T–the part about how he was right. The wall was amazing. It wound up and down the hills like a crooked spine, for as far as we could see. The hills around us looked like a crumpled tapestry of purple and grey, making the wall stand out even more. The sky was perfectly clear, and about every ten feet for the first half of the walk, we felt the need to take pictures. It was freaking spectacular.
Also spectacular was the walking experience. At every tower, Lim Pia and her friends would update us how many more we had to go. There were 30 in total, and it would take us about 4 hours to walk it in its entirety. The Chinese women would patiently wait for the fat Westerners to catch up, chatting to each other in Chinese and occasionally offering to take a photo. These women do this walk every day. It hurts just to think about.
After the first towers, we noticed it becoming significantly less restored…as in, it was not restored at all. Giant bricks were lying willy-nilly all over the place, and there were big holes in the wall. There was a Danish family on the trip with us, and the mother had a really hard time getting up and down the hills and around the unrestored parts. It was lucky for her that two of the Chinese women had assigned themselves to her, and at every hill, these tiny old women would be dragging her up, holding her hands.
Halfway through, the locals told us they were leaving. It was time to buy. T and I bought a book, and Lim Pia literally ran away, calling to us that the rest was easy as she fled.
Lim Pia lied. About 3/4 of the way through, my good knee decided to rebel and become very, very angry. By the end of the walk, I was limping with every downward step. With about a half kilometer to go there was a zip line to the end that took people across the water to the car park. I should have take it, but I was afeered of death. So I kept walking.
At the end of the wall, before we even got to the zip line, T and I waited for the Danish woman to finish. We cheered her on as she sat down in exhaustion (her guides stayed on past the halfway point, but left her with about five towers to go). She looked at us and told us that she would rather give birth again than go through that walk. She was not kidding.
Despite the fact that it took me about two weeks to walk properly again, I’m glad we did it. I figure if it comes down to having children or doing the Great Wall, I’m off the hook! The wall only took four hours and crippled me for two weeks. A pretty good deal, compared to pregnancy and childbirth, I’d say.
R.I.P., lungs
From Bali, T and I flew to Beijing for a traditional Chinese Christmas. This was perhaps not our best laid plan, as the temperature fell a staggering 60 degrees Fahrenheit between Denpasar and Beijing. At the time, however, I was very excited to have a real winter again. Melbourne winter is a sad imitation of a true one, with temperatures hovering around 45-50 degrees, and no snow—only rain. So when we flew into Beijing in the early morning, I was overcome with joy to see the telltale fuzzy winter sky out the window of the plane…
until I realized it was pollution.
But that came later. The first thing to surprise me at the airport was the rating system installed in the window of our immigration officer. Um, for real, who is going to say that their immigration officers work is unsatisfactory in CHINA? I’d just as soon chop my head off right now. I was amused to see signs in the airport saying things like “Welcome to use Unicom China. Your friend, Yao Ming.” I had underestimated the popularity of basketball in China; I realized how big it is when we flew in and the first building I saw said NBA.com on the side of it. More surprising than that were the first two restaurants I saw upon exiting the baggage claim: McDonalds and Starbucks. Welcome to China.
Our taxi driver took us to our hostel after asking a couple of people for directions. The hostel, the Lotus, came recommended by our friend Mara, and was located down a small hutong in a quiet part of town. A hutong is a Chinese alleyway, in which few of the local houses have bathrooms and they all share a public one. Fear not. Fortunately, ours had a bathroom.
The hostel was quite lovely, with a courtyard and a sweet little lounge area. Unfortunately, the lounge was heated with coal, which was akin to breathing in razorblades. Our room was fairly large, with a decent bathroom and a thick curtain in front of the door to keep the cold out. Our bed was also large, but it was also a boxspring. No, literally, a boxspring. T’s head almost flew off when we went to bed, and he spent the remainder of the day cursing Mara, but I slept like a baby.
After a few hours of sleep on the boxspring, we were ready to go exploring. We managed to order noodles at a local restaurant and were quite impressed with ourselves when they turned out to be delicious. Then, we walked. We walked through a shopping mall and down numerous streets and down some wide boulevards which appeared quite European in the fuzzy night light, until we got to Tienamen Square. Like many people, when I thought of Tienamen Square, I thought of tanks running people over. Luckily for us, there was nothing so sinister on the night we visited. The square was mostly empty, with a few other tourists and some Russian-hat-wearing locals roaming around. We took some pictures, and danced around the kite and postcard sellers. I decided I really liked Beijing.
Unfortunately, in the following days I decided I liked Beijing a little less. Not because of anything the city did wrong—it’s a charming place, with nice people and lots of history. It was because of the constant, incessant grey. Everything was grey: the houses, the sky, the smoke, and people’s clothes. After a while, I found it really depressing, and nothing could make up for it. I should also mention that I had difficulty taking a deep breath the entire time we were there. Between the pollution (it was mad smoggy when we were there), the coal and the neverending smoking, I think my lungs aged at least 30 years during the 5 days we spent in town. In case you were wondering, I now speak like a 3-pack a day smoker and regularly hock up giant chunks of phlegm. Excited for me to return to America, are you?
I should reiterate that it was lovely, though. People in Beijing are very nice and helpful, even if their English isn’t always that great (ha! as if my Chinese is remotely understandable). The Forbidden City was under construction when we were there, but was still really colorful, with stunning detail. We wandered around for a few hours one day, just staring at all the different designs and colors and the neverending maze of rooms.
The best thing we discovered was the Chinese Park Phenomenon. We were a little lazy in Beijing, and didn’t do nearly as much as we would have liked, but we did go to the Temple of Heaven, which Mara has warned could be a disappointment, as it’s “just a park.”
Who knew? Chinese parks are more exciting than Disneyland! It was full of old women playing hackysack (T played with them, but I begged off because of terminal uncoordination), old men playing cards or mah jong or God knows what kinds of games, people playing Chinese classical music and doing mass ballroom dancing, and huge groups of people doing Tai Chi, all slapping themselves together in the winter air. It was friggin’ fantastic. Oh yeah, and the Temple of Heaven was okay too.
China hates me
I have a couple more Bali posts for you, but before I leave here for Beijing, I wanted to warn you that I might be offline for a while. Or, for the entire time we’re in China. According to Cara in Shanghai, it’s impossible to access my blog from there. This could be because she has really good firewalls at the Holiday Inn where she lives, or it could be because CHINA HATES ME. Either way, I will find a way to get the posts up, though it might not be until we’re back in good ole SE Asia, where I am beloved by all (especially dark-eyed women selling crap).
So keep checking, hang on and I should be back at some point. Do not fear: I am probably not dead in China, though I will make no guarantees.
