Robert and I planned to spend three days in Shanghai before flying off to our respective destinations (me to the US, Robert to Kuala Lumpur and beyond).  My former colleague, biz contact, and friend Peter graciously offered up his apartment during our stay.  Getting the key was a little tricky, since his roommate had also decided to visit the US, but with the help of the aiyi’s (maid) phone number at the last minute (after we’d arrived in Shanghai), we were able to meet up and get the key.  OK, we were now set.

But, before we’d successfully rendezvoused to get the key, before we even had contact with Peter, we thought we’d go to a popular subway stop in the hopes of finding a Starbucks so that we could use their wireless internet connection and hopefully connect with Peter.  Well, we never found the Starbucks, but we did get our first glimpse at the new and very impressive sharp-chisel-touching-the-sky-of-a-building Shanghai World Financial Center, the second tallest in the world, though we didn’t know that was it at the time.  We had chosen “Century Plaza” (on the right side of this map) because it had numerous intersections.  But, it proved to be fruitless.  We boarded the subway and tried again.  Then Peter called.

Flash forward to us with the keys; now we had the freedom to go anywhere.  This was the second time I’d been to Shanghai, the first being with my parents and some friends of ours on an official tour the year before.  This time, I was completely in charge, and no Chinese local to help out.  However, it was quite easy; my Chinese has progressed enough to get by.  And, unlike Shenzhen, there is a good bit more English.  In fact, our first stop was “People’s Square”, a great place to begin the tour since it leads to Nanjing Street, a long pedestrian street filled with restaurants and shops.  As we were orienting ourselves and the map in People’s Square, we were approached by three Chinese tourists, or so they said, who struck up a quick conversation with us.  Eventually, they invited us to a “tea show” which we declined because we were starving.  We had finished packing around 1:30am the night before, were up at 5:00am to go by my office and pick up something I had forgotten and then took the same taxi out to the airport.  Anyway, we would see this same triumverate tomorrow in the same spot talking to different foreigners; I’ll let Robert finish the story to explain why.  It is quite a good story.

I was surprised at how aggressive the wandering salesmen were on Nanjing Road.  They were approaching the style of the “Merchants of LuoHu” (wow, one of my first posts).  I teased around with some of them.  Usually, this is OK, but some didn’t get the message.  One lady, selling strap on flashing roller skates almost wouldn’t take no for an answer; she cut her prices nearly six times before she finally gave up.  We spotted several restaurants and got Robert some overdue coffee, but eventually opted to move off the main drag for something a little more…traditional.

We found a delicious, cheap, filthy, delightful, hole-in-the-wall restaurant where we bought fried rice, a thing broth.  We also brought in sort of a fried dumpling filled with meat and milk tea to supplement the food.  It was a satisfying lunch.  We returned to this same area late another night for dinner.  We were the last in the restaurant, enjoying a fried rice dish with meat in a hot skillet.  I noticed that the owners were beginning to close up show.  Obviously, other residents of the restaurant expected this as well when a LARGE RAT began crawling down a black wire hanging behind Robert.  By the time I remembered the word for “rat” in Chinese and shouted to the owners, who seemed not to mind, he had descended and vanished somewhere along a crack in the wall.  Robert’s response was most memorable:  “Aweeeesome!  This is great!  Real China!”  I couldn’t agree more.

After our day trip to Suzhou, we returned to the Pudong area (that’s where are the really cool modern buildings are…oh yeah, and they’re putting in a super tall skyscraper which will dwarf the current highest tower by nearly 150 meters!) to have dinner in the Jin Mao Tower, in the Hyatt up on the 60th floor or so.  This was a huge departure from our two dollar rat meal from the day before, but we were in a mood to celebrate.  But first, we took a visit to the Shanghai World Financial Center for a commanding view of the city.  The building is so impressive.  Very modern on the inside and sleek on the outside.  Taking the elevator up was a treat too.  You could barely feel the acceleration and there was also a delightful light show on the ceiling to enjoy.  The top of the tower is surprisingly thin, and, in Feng Shui tradition (or at least as much as I understand it), the bridge at the top of the large gap in the the tower is a glass skybride and observatory.  As you can imagine, the views are great.

Later, we enjoyed a wonderful Italian dinner in the Jin Mao Tower Hyatt.  We were again the last party to leave as they were closing up.  Alex, a friend of Peter’s roommate (who later had given us an extra key so we could return the original one to the aiyi…) and a busy man in the world of business consulting, met up with us after work (!!) and helped finish off the wine.  We all then retired up to the club on the top floor to the “Cloud 9 Lounge” for more drinks.  Sitting so high up and looking out onto the city was an experience by itself.  It was just such a great moment to savor and enjoy:  a wonderful view, good drinks, and superb company.

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Part of our trip to Shanghai was spent as a day trip to Suzhou, one of the many canal cities to the west of Shanghai.  I’d wanted to see one of these towns ever since seeing the end scenes from Mission Impossible III.  True to the warnings of the guidebook and some locals, the scenic spots did take some effort to find; much of the old town is surrounded by ugly, smell, or industrial parts.

Buying the train ticket was easy and cheap.  And, we were happy to discover that our $4 fare was for the comfortable and spacious first class cabin.  Not bad.  Approximately one hour later, we pulled in to Suzhou, then began a long walk to the scenic parts of town.  First we crossed a stinking stagnant canal on a bridge crowded with street merchants.  After a couple of wrong turns into the ugly parts of town, we steered in the right direction and found the first guidebook landmark – the silk museum, which, from nearly being over run by vines and creepers, appeared to not have had a visitor in years.  I was worried that the rest of the city might look no better.  But it didn’t; eventually we found some good stuff:  The Temple of Mystery, The Twin Pagodas, and even some quality canal views, though they were nothing close to what can be seen in the city of Li Jiang in the Yunnan province.  I especially enjoyed the food.  We never sat down for a meal, but instead dined on street snacks, the favorite being sort of a Chinese pizza – a crust with ground meat and spices on top.  It was delicious and only 3 RMB (under 50 cents).  There was plenty of milk tea stands, much like Shanghai, to choose from as well.

We ended up hitting all major sections of the city, ending the day in the southwest corner.  After so much walking, we opted to use a rickshaw to make our way back to the center of town.  Unfortunately, we suddenly realized that we only had a few minutes to catch the train back to Shanghai.  We ran to the busiest street, caught a cab to the train station, ran through the gate, and boarded with two minutes to spare.  The nap on the ride back to Shanghai was a perfect ending.

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The trick of the day was this: our accommodations were being provided by a friend of Theron’s, but we first had to get the key from a friend of Theron’s friend, and Theron had had no luck contacting either recently.  We needed an internet connection, the Sibyl of the computer age.  Alas, even McDonald’s was not helpful this time.  We took a subway to what we thought was the city center, and at my suggestion based on my amazing intuition, we began walking…and walking…and found nothing but a seemingly endless business district.  All the conditions were right for disaster.  So we returned to the subway.

Eventually Theron reached his friend–who was visiting the US at the time–and we thanked the wonders of the cell phone as we made our way to the apartment.  The plan had changed; we were now to get the key from the Ai-yi (cleaning lady) once we reached the apartment.  The deal went down without a hitch, and we soon found ourselves free to explore Shanghai.  It all really began (several hours into the current chapter of our tale) in the city center.

When we ascended from the subway, the bright blue sky was veiled in haze; the tops of nearby buildings were fuzzy. It took us a while to orient ourselves in Renmin Park; we were sitting ducks.  Three pleasant Chinese nationals came up to us to ask whether they could help us.  Their English was excellent.  Once they had helped us to get our bearings, we had a friendly getting-to-know-you exchange.  They said they were on a two-week vacation from Beijing and invited us to join them for tea.  You, dear reader, have no doubt already guessed that we were starving again, having thoroughly worked off our pre-breakfast, so we declined and parted ways with our guides and went in search of proper sustenance.

Happily, Theron and I are both eager for thorough absorption in local culture–as you, dear reader, no doubt have discerned from one or two other entries on this blog–and so we veered from the touristy bustle of East Nanjing Rd and wandered among herds of bicycles along side streets until we found ourselves on a row of open-air food stands, the sunlight thick with the steam and smoke from soups and stoves.  Milk Tea proved irresistable to Theron, as usual, but we were also drawn to try some of the other tasty-looking lunch fare, though we knew not what it was.  We selected some biscuit-like goodies stuffed with seasoned, ground beef.  They were exquisite.  I wondered how long it would be before the less savory effects of the unknown dish made their impact.

Returning to Nanjing Rd., we were assaulted by a steady stream of peddlers; one was so persistent that she engaged Theron in some kind of conversation for a few blocks before finally peeling away.  The unflagging flanks foisted on us sunglasses, watches, weird toys, a tedious mix of useless merchandise.  The realization that this was the merest tip of the international industrial iceberg was overwhelming.  So it was necessary to forget about that.  However, we did do some serious shopping in an underground mall where the assortment of ties proved irresistable to me, like Milk Tea to Sai Long.

The slightest glance at some DKNY knock-offs garnered me a devoted salesman for life who would not let me go–no matter how many other booths I tried to escape to–until I negotiated him down to the lowest possible price, at which point it would have been just silly to let the deal go.  He was practically handing them to me for free, gift-wrapped.  Incidentally, I have yet to wear the shirts–they fit oddly.  Thank God I spent nearly nothing on them.

And so it went.  Theron stopped at a street vendor to try on socks in front of God and everybody, while I selected silk scarves for mom.  (The ties at this place were pretty vulgar.)  Eventually, we drew close to the Bund, and Theron ordered me to keep my gaze toward the ground as we arrived, as he had done in Hong Kong.  By this time, night had fallen.  The boardwalk was alive with pedestrian traffic, and, of course, the obligatory peddlers.  The sight of the extravagant, neon-lit skyscrapers across the river was mighty impressive, as were the equally extravagant bill-board barges.  But these spectacular views–the brash commercialism across the river and the elegant colonial architecture facing it–were accompanied by an odd soundtrack.  One of the toys being pushed in large numbers along the boardwalk was a kind of top which coruscates madly while spinning and loudly chirps this astonishingly odd half-tune in the timbres of toy trumpets and squeaky pet toys.  As an extreme of aesthetic contrast, it is possibly unsurpassable.  Theron and I could not help but double over laughing, and we kept laughing about it intermittently through the remainder of the trip.

Happily, Theron and I are both eager for thorough absorption in local culture–as you, dear reader, no doubt have discerned from one or two other entries on this blog–and so we veered from the touristy bustle of East Nanjing Rd and wandered among herds of bicycles along side streets until we found ourselves on a row of open-air food stands, the sunlight thick with the steam and smoke from soups and stoves.  Milk Tea proved irresistable to Theron, as usual, but we were also drawn to try some of the other tasty-looking lunch fare, though we knew not what it was.  We selected some biscuit-like goodies stuffed with seasoned, ground beef.  They were exquisite.  I wondered how long it would be before the less savory effects of the unknown dish made their impact.

Returning to Nanjing Rd., we were assaulted by a steady stream of peddlers; one was so persistent that she engaged Theron in some kind of conversation for a few blocks before finally peeling away.  The unflagging flanks foisted on us sunglasses, watches, weird toys, a tedious mix of useless merchandise.  The realization that this was the merest tip of the international industrial iceberg was overwhelming.  So it was necessary to forget about that.  However, we did do some serious shopping in an underground mall where the assortment of ties proved irresistable to me, like Milk Tea to Sai Long.

The slightest glance at some DKNY knock-offs garnered me a devoted salesman for life who would not let me go–no matter how many other booths I tried to escape to–until I negotiated him down to the lowest possible price, at which point it would have been just silly to let the deal go.  He was practically handing them to me for free, gift-wrapped.  Incidentally, I have yet to wear the shirts–they fit oddly.  Thank God I spent nearly nothing on them.

And so it went.  Theron stopped at a street vendor to try on socks in front of God and everybody, while I selected silk scarves for mom.  (The ties at this place were pretty vulgar.)  Eventually, we drew close to the Bund, and Theron ordered me to keep my gaze toward the ground as we arrived, as he had done in Hong Kong.  By this time, night had fallen.  The boardwalk was alive with pedestrian traffic, and, of course, the obligatory peddlers.  The sight of the extravagant, neon-lit skyscrapers across the river was mighty impressive, as were the equally extravagant bill-board barges.  But these spectacular views–the brash commercialism across the river and the elegant colonial architecture facing it–were accompanied by an odd soundtrack.  One of the toys being pushed in large numbers along the boardwalk was a kind of top which coruscates madly while spinning and loudly chirps this astonishingly odd half-tune in the timbres of toy trumpets and squeaky pet toys.  As an extreme of aesthetic contrast, it is possibly unsurpassable.  Theron and I could not help but double over laughing, and we kept laughing about it intermittently through the remainder of the trip.

We were taking photos, trying to capture the night lights, when three young, nicely dressed Chinese nationals walked up to us, asking us in excellent English to take a picture of the three of them together in front of the skyline.  (These were not the same three from earlier in the day but were suspiciously similar.)  We did so, and before we knew it, we were engaged in friendly, getting-to-know-you conversation.  They were on a two-week vacation from Beijing.  (Suspicious, I tell you.)  The two girls carried on with Theron, and somehow I got stuck with the guy talking to me about his religious convictions; it was type casting, I suppose.  It was an expert job of “divide and conquer,” because the next thing I knew, we’re heading back toward Nanjing, one of the girls smiled at me as they led the way: “We’re going to have tea but must get there soon; it starts at 6:30.”

The thoughts which ensued darted through my mind in a hot panic.  “What the hell did they promise Theron?!  This is a set-up! It’s a trap! (Music cue from “Return of the Jedi.”) We’re going to wake up tomorrow morning in a bathtub full of ice, wondering where we left one of our kidneys! We’re going to end up hostages of some Chinese drug cartel getting decapitated on on youtube!”  At any rate, I was sure it was some kind of scam, and they had executed the move so well that I could not say anything to Theron without being rude…they’ve also researched and discovered my greatest weakness! Those nefarious, nice-looking Chinese yuppies!  Curses!”  So then I began plotting.  “OK, I can’t speak to Theron in English because they speak English, and I can’t speak to him in Chinese, because they obviously speak Chinese…and, anyway, my Chinese was no where near being able to say anything like ‘let’s get the hell out of here! It’s a trap!  They’re gonna kill us!’  Ah!  But there was Spanish!  Theron is also fluent in Spanish!  And I took Spanish!…for less than half of a summer-session course wherein I didn’t really do any of the homework…and…uh, no, I guess Spanish isn’t an option.”  Meanwhile I’m having a conversation about religious tolerance and character with the nice-looking, evil-plotting Chinese yuppie guy.

So, finally, we arrive at the supposedly esteemed tea establishment.  It was an inelegant lobby painted in–of course!–Chinese red with a bunch of portraits of Chinese guys in white coats smiling cheesily and some plaques that may as well have been made at your local little-league trophy store.  Another nice-looking lady in a white coat (meant to suggest, “I look clinical and therefore must be an expert in something”) said some things to us in Chinese which one of our seductresses translated with amazing proficiency.  “She said that these are the degrees of our [insert proper fake title here, like "tea-making experts"] from [insert important-sounding establishment here, like "National Tea-Making Institute"].” Behind us, some definitely NOT nice-looking Chinese nationals–one might more accurately describe them as “hoodlums” or possibly “Chinese mafia thugs”–were thoroughly absorbed in something on the computer screens in front of them (probably the local, off-track betting results).  We were then led upstairs.  My anxiety increased with each step.

In a Chinese-red room no larger than 10′ x 12′, we were seated around a table, while Miss White-Coat-Certified stood on the other side and began speaking to us about tea…but, for all I know, she was talking about the woes of her friend who sells DKNY knock-offs nearby who got taken for a ride while trying to help some miserly American find the underground-mall exit earlier that day.  But, whatever she was saying, she smiled the whole time.  Our proficient seductress translated in fluid English, completing sentences almost ahead of our tea “expert.”  I was feverishly trying to think of how to get out of this before they forced the first rufi down my throat:  “Estoy…nosotros…peligro immanente…DAMN! Why didn’t I take Spanish seriously that summer?!”  But, boy, these nice-looking, evil people sure did know how to talk us up.  They told jokes in English and had us laughing, though I know my eyes betrayed a certain “What the hell are you going to do to us and where the hell is the nearest American embassy” kind of anxiety.

White-Coat Dragon-Lady explained that we had to choose one of the traditional Chinese lucky numbers, [8, 6, 11 or 300…I can’t remember these. Theron very thoughtfully chose the lowest number, which coincided with success in relationships, and she announced that that would be how many teas we would try.  I watched with feverish intensity as Miss-Just-Put-on-Your-White-Coat-and-Smile-More poured the first cup of tea…and took a sip herself!  She drank it before we did!  That was a huge relief.  And, then, it was our turn. The stuff was surprisingly delicious.  Not your average Lipton’s.  Even exceptional for exceptional tea.

Arising, yea, even before the crack of yon Shenzhen dawn, Sai Long and I fumbled our way toward wakefulness and, subsequently, the airport: quick showers, a clumsy zipping and gathering of bags, a last, nearly unconscious check of the apartment soon to be left under the supervision of Georgia and an occasional Georgia-sitter for a few weeks while Theron was in Georgia for the holidays and I wended my way around Australia and New Zealand on the second half of my tour.

We got a taxi easily enough but Sai Long had realized a crucial missing element–his laptop was still at the office, and he had hoped to do work while in the States.  So we made a necessary detour on the way to the airport.  I confess I felt a slight tinge of something like espionage as I waited in the back of the taxi; Theron darted into the yawning shadows of a building in the high People’s-Socialist architectural style.  Under the cold glare of a streetlight at the gate, a uniformed, armed security guard paced by his booth, eyeing the taxi persistently. The minutes ticked; I had no idea how far the airport was–no doubt Theron had told me, but did I mention it wasn’t dawn yet?–and so I had no idea how we were doing on time, and I was dozing.  In any case, it was a ripping thrill of Cold-War make-believe, in a post-Cold-War dream.

Happily, Theron returned.  I cannot imagine what I would have done had he not…really, I have no idea.  We arrived at the airport with plenty of time and, discovering we were very hungry, we were grateful for the ubiquitously undifferentiated, artery-destroying treats of McDonald’s.  Nothing else was open.  Equally ubiquitous and equally undifferentiated Christmas tunes serenaded our pre-breakfast stomach-silencing.

The day which greeted us in Shanghai was dazzling and cool.  I wasted our time awaiting the inexplicably lengthy preparation of some deeply disappointing battery-acid qua coffee. After one sip, I dumped it into a trashcan as we hurried for the train into the city.  This was my first trip on a superspeed train, and we filmed the whole experience.  The vehicles on the parallel expressways appeared to stand still.  Sped-up film effects no longer seem so articificial to me.

The afternoon I arrived in Shenzhen, we caught a bus which was jam-packed with people, with no regard for the safety regulations about which we are so strict in the US: people were standing in the aisle, in the door-wells, and I was pressed up against the very front of the bus, such that, when new passengers somehow squeezed on board, they would have to pass their metro cards forward, then I would swipe them and pass them back. Theron and I, as fairly rare foreigners here, get lots of stares. It’s like being a celebrity. And these people are not shy about it: they will fix their gaze on you unapologetically for minutes.

A real adventure ensued on Saturday night (December 13) when we went in search of DVD knock-offs. The main market for these–also one of the world’s largest markets for imitation electronic products (i-Pods, i-Phones and more)–is a wide and winding alley among a series of six-to-eight-story buildings, all plastered with neon signs, like Times Square on crack. The crowds are thick and the noise is intensified by hip, young vendors in Santa hats barking their wares in microphones accompanied by hip-hop or techno beats. McDonald’s (which they call MaDaNa) is situated at the center under some towers made to look like old-fashioned pagodas, the only nominal tip of the hat to old China. Also very prevalent here is KFC! Since the Colonel is pictured here as in the US, only from the collar up, the locals refer to this chain as “Old Head.”

We perused the impressive contents of one DVD store which had beautiful packaging (though still fake) and a wide selection. (“Frost/Nixon” is already available here.) Theron went to another store and, not finding what we were after (TV shows), consulted a 16-ish shop girl, stylishly dressed in something like “swindler-chic” and possessed of a certain whimsically sly demeanor. She then beckoned us to follow her. So we did. Off into the crowds we went, dodging random people who approached and, in broken English, offered “electronic,” “DVD,” “Rolex,” and, best of all, “Sexy DVD.” Occasionally, it was hard for me to keep up with Theron and our guide because of the number of people and the chaos of their movements. Several blocks away, we entered a building full of more vendors and more stalls of fake merchandise. Rows and rows and shelves and shelves of cell phones, cameras, i-Pods, etc. The sheer amount of items is staggering. We jammed into a packed elevator and went up a few flights, being thoroughly checked out by the locals. Continuing in our guide’s footsteps, we exited the elevator and followed a corridor which took turns at odd angles. It seemed that we were coming to the back of the mall, the place where one might find restrooms (you don’t want to imagine what these would have been like in this place), security (which was not at all in evidence) and administrative offices. At the end of an especially blank segment, a fellow who may have been some kind of maintenance man was washing something in a kind of wet-room. As we passed along the blank, dirty-white walls, our guide casually knocked along a shallow recess that might have been a shop window at one time, now closed over with something like dry-wall. She continued knocking on the wall as she approached an equally blank and seemingly sealed doorway with no knob or handle. She paused at it for a second before it was opened from the inside by another teenager. We were ushered in through a curtain to a secret DVD store, the walls of which were lined with fake DVDs, including a collection of [D]ruce Lee [sic] films (which I just had to get as a laugh for a friend), copies of “Lost” (our guide pointed to it as I held it and said, “very good, very good”), “Rome,” “The Simpsons,” “Pushing Up Daisies,” “Dexter,” you name it. I even found a complete set of my beloved “Arrested Development.” If nothing else, the English subtitles will be a riot. A couple of nights before, we had bought a copy of “Burn After Reading” which had hilariously erroneous English subtitles, e.g. whenever the actors spoke the f-word, “mama” was inexplicably given in the subtitles. On the floor of the shop, a kid was stuffing packages with new DVDs and stacking them to be shelved. It was a thrilling glimpse of the underground industry.

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Of course, the question arises: why should some shops be able to sell what are obviously illegal copies openly, while another has to keep a secret shop? Theron’s friend Coco suggested that perhaps it’s due to “guan xi,” the somewhat mysterious, unwritten, unofficial good-business relations that are necessary to thrive in the Chinese market. Perhaps the secret store had not cultivated good “guan xi,” Coco suggested.

There was another little adventure that night. We had just left the secret room and emerged in the streets again. Sure enough, people started walking up to us saying, “Sexy DVD! Sexy DVD!” One slight, middle-aged woman came up to us and would not go away. Usually Theron and I are good about ignoring these people, but this woman would not give up. She kept saying “DVD 5 RMB! DVD 5 RMB!” 5RMB being about half what you normally pay for fake DVDs. So Theron gave in, and we followed her across the crowded plaza, into an indoor market that was very seedy and run-down (a whole set of escalators sat dormant) into another open market and then she told us to wait. She came back with a big notebook of DVD labels. Theron selected two. When I expressed the slightest interest or amusement in any, she assumed I wanted them. Finally, we clarified that Theron only wanted 2. She went away again, and we waited a few minutes. She returned accompanied by a guy who looked somewhat official (blue uniform shirt, or so it appeared); she seemed annoyed with him, and so we got a little nervous. Nevertheless, at her insistent beckoning, we followed the two of them as they crossed to one end of the open market and then darted behind a clothes or fabric booth. We couldn’t figure out why they were being so secretive. Oddly, at the back of the fabric booth, a lady slumped face-down on a pile of samples, presumably sleeping. Our peddler gave Theron his two DVDs; he checked them out and gave them two 5-RMB bills. The lady protested, saying that the bills had tears in them and were no good. The tears were insignificant.  It all seemed fishy.  Theron said the deal was off and asked for his money back, but she wouldn’t give it to him. He tried to give back the discs, but she wouldn’t take them. She asked him to pay with a 50- or 100-RMB note, and they would give us change. The man opened his wallet to reveal a ton of 10-yuan notes. Theron was suspicious of this from stories he had heard and asked me for a 10. Fortunately, I had a 10-RMB note which we gave it to them.  At last, the deal was done, somewhat to the dealers’ disappointment. In retrospect, we realized they were trying to get us to give them a big note (100 or 50) so they could give us back change…in counterfeit bills!!! Apparently this is a common scam! So glad we were wise to it! All in a night’s adventure.

I enjoy giving presentations to interested folks at my office and recently had the opportunity to expand out to the public – a Chinese friend of mine had expressed dismay at the table behavior of some of her colleagues at a Western restaurant in front of some Western guests.  “Oh, you know, I used to give presentations on this topic at my company”, I said.  “Maybe you could do it for our company.”  “Sure!”  The next thing I knew, I was signed up for a presentation on Western Table Manners to a small electronics importing company.  I picked December 13th, when Robert would be in town, so that I could solicit his help as well.

I wanted to do something beyond a dry presentation and the day before we were to deliver the course (we were having too much fun and procrastinated as long as possible) we finally came up with an idea to recreate a dinner scene with a really badly behaved guest.  We then would recreate the scene once the guest had been properly educated.  We formulated the plot over pizza at Sandro’s place.  Sandro of course, didn’t want us to leave so early and kept handing out samples for us to try.  We went to bed rather late with the intent of working out the details the morning before the presentation.  The following morning, we ran through it three times.  From my personal experience, running through a speech three times would give me the confidence I needed to do a decent job.  Two people was more of a challenge, but we felt reasonably confident.

Of course, the show went fine and we got good feedback.  I hope they were being honest.  I’m interested in honing this presentation; I have another opportunity to deliver it to another group in January.  Robert, want to fly back?  Maybe you could deduct the ticket from your taxes!

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Daryl and I had been talking a big talk about doing the Macau Tower Sky Jump, or even the Bungee Jump if we were up to it.  Robert was into the idea as well.  But, in the end, we were merely spectators.  I’d say part of this was out of fear, but the other, the main reason, was due to the cost.  The bungee jump is over $200 US!  That’s a serious hourly rate for a thrill that probably still can’t touch something like a climb up the Northeast Buttress of Slesse Mountain or the Northwest Ridge of Mount Sir Donald.  Concerned about our savings accounts (and, to be fair, Daryl had just completed the Macau Marathon), we decided to just kick back and watch:

I found Theron engrossed in his laptop in the Hong Kong airport after my plane finally arrived Friday night (12/5).  (There had been an hour-long delay while JAL exchanged jets.)  My abnormally short haircut which apparently made me unfamiliar at first glance, but the surprise I intended was my newly learned ability to speak a little Mandarin.  (Ni hao! Wo shi Meiguoren. Wo hen hao.  Xiexei.  Now back to English.)  Following a brief train trip into Kowloon, Theron reciprocated an old surprise tactic I used when he first arrived in London in 1991, having me keep my eyes to the ground until we were in optimal viewing position of Victoria Bay.  Of course, it was breathtaking…I mean after I looked up.  Accommodations in the Kowloon Shangri-La were mighty posh.  We slept in, caught an American-style breakfast at a corner cafe, then strolled Kowloon’s bay walk.  Three different groups of Chinese students stopped us to interview us for a class project, practicing their English.  We ignored less wholesome solicitations, though I think Theron really did want to demonstrate to me how you can enhance your luck by giving a boardwalk stranger money.  It seemed to me that, because it required one to part with some wealth to become lucky, we were better off with the “bird in hand” and so kept walking. We had hoped to get a visa for me in short time, but there was no visa service over the weekend.  (Curses! More time in Hong Kong! I began to wonder about the wisdom of “a bird in the hand.”)  We wandered central Hong Kong pretty thoroughly through the day, photographing immoderately as we went.  The chain of escalators served as our main corridor to higher ground.  Charming side streets and the lovely sage-green mosque near the escalators’ end captivated us along the way.  Fans of “college drankin’” will be disappointed to note that we nobly resisted Cochran’s (“Buddeh?!”) beckoning.  Our wanderings took us among concrete mazes of walkways along, over, and under serpentine roads before the wild cries of monkeys drew us to the zoo.  Watching the monkeys frolic in feats of agility, we took a load off the dogs.  (It was good to sit down…’til the ants began to eat us. Well, really, there were no ants.  I just tend to sing the blues.)  On the downward portion of our journey, an enchanting display of roses frozen in ice, hanging from the limbs of a tree and brightly dripping in the sun caused us to pause and peruse in Causeway Plaza with a number of other camera-wielding types.  The subway then carried us back to Kowloon where we gathered our things (mostly my big and disintegrating duffle bag) and set off in a taxi for the ferry port from whence we departed for Macau just before sundown.

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Macau is the Asian Vegas.  Garishly lit buildings glare in the harbor, and the gold-glass, light-spangled Grand Lisboa towers over all like a giant torch.  I think “grand” is not quite the descriptor for it, but “big” or “gargantuan” and “gauche” are certainly accurate.  We stayed at the Guia Hotel next to the lighthouse.  (Now, it has been an odd thing for me to find American-style Christmas decorations–right down to the paper snowflakes–and music everywhere I go on this trip, but it was equally odd to see Portuguese alongside Chinese in this town.  But at least I had a chance of figuring the meaning of the Romance language.)  From our hotel balcony, we had a pretty good view of the lights below.  Also, not a bad room: Sai Long continues to deliver.

Descending into the neon maelstrom, we found not a single respectable local restaurant for dinner.  McDonald’s and Pizza Hut stood like sentinels for America’s good ol’ fast-food industry on one of the main drags, but we were trying to blend in with the locals…until we realized there were almost no Macau locals, as everyone was there from places elsewhere “for the casino” and/or “for the girl,” as a friend of Theron’s says.  So we gave ourselves over to the tractor beam clutching our wallets emanating from the Grand Lisboa.  Security was tight at the GL, so much so that, though we did not go through the metal detectors in the main lobby nor those on the second floor, we had to actually sit down and eat at the second floor restaurant overlooking the open casino floor before we could casually take the escalator down to it, unharassed by the guards in gangster suits.  This may be a TSA operation.  As we ate, we were amused to note the ebbing and flowing tides of men at the bar along one side of the room.  The bar was positioned such that customers sitting at it faced a stage which all too frequently featured dancing girls (Yes, scantily clad; need you ask?).  When the show started, the tide of men trickled in around the tables, getting six-people deep along the bar. The show featured something like choreography to such hits as Strauss’ “Wine, Women and Song” waltz (there’s a theme here working on very deep subliminal levels, deeper than language and cultural barriers, even) and with introductions by the other Strauss’s “Also sprach Zarathustra” (making connections at levels deeper than even Nietzche could fathom).  Somewhere in there, the 19th-century can-can skirts gave way to things that would be generously described as bikinis. Then the movement stopped (an end to the dance, we presume), the curtain closed, and the testosterone tide retreated to the mere sideshow of gambling.  We toured the floor and paused to watch the high tide.  These faces transcended blankness, and the absence of applause following the onstage to-do was deafening.

Next morning, we were up early to try to get photographic evidence proving that Theron’s friend Da Li actually runs marathons.  We had no idea where to find the runners, and we were further daunted by the fact that our uncertain destination was always moving.  Not too far beyond the shadow of the Grand Lisboa, we spotted a couple of sweaty, haggard-looking folks moving at a pace too slow to be casino customers fleeing creditors or pimps, so we knew we probably had the right crowd, though the fact that police were merely calmly supervising did raise doubts.  Nevertheless, standing alongside a road which rose up out of a tunnel that may well have led to the underworld (which would explain the people running out of it, the plethora of police, and the proximity of the Grand Lisboa), we caught sight of a man in a red shirt and a white hat thereby fitting the description Da Li told Theron to expect, and sure enough, it was Santa Claus (for all you kids out there) or Da Li (for nonbelievers).  Theron ran alongside him for a while, snapping photos dutifully.  I confess to having enjoyed an opportunity not to run or even walk at a brisk pace, merely standing there waiting to see how far Theron intended to go and trying to decided whether I would eat breakfast at McDonald’s or Pizza Hut if he chose to keep going to the finish line.  Theron returned, and we commenced exploring the non-Vegas districts of Macau which proved quite intriguing as a remnant of the colonial days.

The old town square was grossly glutted with a reindeer-sleigh-and-”old man Christmas” display (Is there no escape?!), but the wavy mosaic pavement was inviting.  We found a hole-in-the-wall wherein we could have a little breakfast for a very reasonable price, then continued our explorations.  The antique stores’ wares and prices were attractive, but I vowed to restrict shopping on this trip to tailored clothing.  The ruins of St. Paul’s were packed with tourists.  We were confounded in trying to photograph the small nearby temple by other photographers in the way.  Didn’t they understand that I wanted a photo of it without them in it and that it’s all about me?  I mean, really!  The Guia fort on the hill presented an amusing tableau of an old-world defense against the encroaching new-world capitalism, since the old cannons all seemed to be aimed toward the Grand Lisboa and her sister establishments.  I fear the battle is lost. In a quieter corner of the fort overlooking St. Paul’s and a sweeping view of the city, Theron and I sat down for a rest, and Theron began to worry me with talk of plans of becoming itinerant in China, wandering and living with no home to see how cheaply he could get by.  I had begun trying to think of how to tell him gently that I thought this was an absolutely terrible idea when he relieved my worry by saying that it was only speculation and that he had no intention of actually going through with it.  (To any of you living in China reading this: please keep an eye on him, lest he should begin to make serious plans of this nature.  Alert us in the US immediately if he starts talking about getting rid of his apartment and earthly goods.)

In the afternoon, we met Da Li (doing well, in spite of the fact that he had run for 26.2 miles that morning) under the Macau Sky Tower where people were paying around $200US for the privelege of being pushed off a plank for a free fall of 233m, the highest bungy jump in the world.  Appropriately, the first person we witnessed enjoying this rare opportunity screamed like a victim in a slasher movie.  We are delighted to have this on video for your viewing pleasure.  Walking on the glass floors of the observation deck was not a little unnerving but certainly thrilling.  We considered doing the bungy jump, but it just didn’t seem worth $200 for about 5 minutes of thrill, the vast majority of which was hanging upside-down over the landing mattress in front of gawking spectators who might record your less-than-dignified reaction for their blog.  A meandering walk took us over a nearby hill to a brief tour of St. Lawrence and on to A Ma Temple, where the air was thick with incense and the rock walls were carved in characters painted blood red.  Pangs of hunger drove us into another hole-in-the-wall, this one a two-seater where we enjoyed rather spicy noodles in hot broth.  Finding a cab back to the hotel was not easy, and time grew short.  Fortune favored us at last, and we gathered luggage from the hotel and reached the ferry port with plenty of time before depature.  Theron bought a ticket for Shenzhen and I one for Hong Kong where I still needed to get my visa.  We rehearsed our rendez-vous plans for my arrival in Shenzhen and then parted.  Minutes later, we were amused to meet back up on the otherside of customs: all customs lines led to the same lobby before departure.  We then made our farewells again and went our separate ways to be reunited two days later in Shenzhen for some real adventures.

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5 – 7 December, 2008.

Of course, there will be points that I will inadverdently omit from previous “Savoring China” posts, or new items that I learn and wish to add.  Well, here are a couple, mostly related to leaning in towards the table.  Interesting stuff.

Eating Chinese food has the potential to be a messy affair, especially by a novice, a Western novice at that.  When I learned my American Table Manners, I learned that it was proper and polite to sit up straight and, using a fork or spoon, bring the food from the plate or bowl to my mouth.  In China, this is not so practical.  Chopsticks being what they are and dishes often served with richly-colored savory sauces makes for splashing inevitable, except for the most skilled.  How is this managed?  By leaning in towards the food, minimizing the travel distance from bowl to mouth and reducing the surface area of your clean shirt to splash.  I can’t tell you how many times I splashed something directly onto my shirt and had to spend time in the bathroom washing it out.  But, those instances have been decreasing.

So, when people lean into the table to eat, this frees up space in the back of the chair.  This is where many people, ladies in particular, will store their bags.  Thievery is the most common crime in Shenzhen (probably all of China), so this serves as a fairly safe place to keep your things while eating.  Some of the nicer restaurants will bring large sleeves which fit over the back of the chair and contain your bag..  At first, I thought this was to protect your bags from splashes (so why not hand out bibs too?).  Not so, it’s to make it much harder for theives to grab your bag and run.