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.