a bad day

Every once in a while, I hate Chinese people. I hate their apathy, close-mindedness, their ignorance, their steadfast belief in outdated notions of health, their rudeness, and, perhaps most of all, their indifference to rudeness. Yeah. It's been a bit of a bad day.
Every morning I participate in a twenty-minute long, four-subway-stop commute from Zhongshan Park to People's Square. I can't really describe what it's like to ride one of two operating lines during rush hour in a city of fifteen million. I thought about photographing the scrapes and bruises incurred during a typical week and about snapping pictures of the escalators between 8 and 9AM, but neither would really accurately capture the terror and frustration of being shoved and swept along in a sea of faceless commuters.
The most incredible aspect, to me, is that nobody seems to mind being jostled and mobbed and trampled upon. I realized long ago that my automatic 'excuse me' was a waste of breath, and that, similarly, I must not expect others to beg pardon. My uncle hypothesizes that it's all an angry chain reaction resulting from one or two unapologetic patrons of the public transport system, but I don't agree. I have three excellent pieces of evidence for believing that people simply don't mind being pushed in the train:
1. Internalization. Children ride the subway; children learn to push and shove without apology and be pushed and shoved without consequence.
2. I experience the same phenomenon at the mall, where leisurely shoppers carelessly push each other bodily, despite having lots of room to maneuver, and no apparent reason to wreck vigilante vengeance on others.
3. The Chinese aren't vigilantes. The first rule of living in Shanghai seems to be that everybody minds their own business. Folks are terribly reluctant to assume accountability for anything - or hassle anybody else for anything.
(I, for my part, try to instill a little social consciousness by appearing extra pained - groaning, grimacing, glaring - at the fifteen or so men and women bumping and tromping me at any given moment in the subway.)
To avoid the madness to as much of a degree as possible, I leave for work at about 7:30 each morning, which puts me in the People's Square vicinity a little over an hour before business hours begin. I kill this time with a book at the Starbucks adjacent to my office. I place the same order every morning - a tall Americano no milk or sugar (the default is to sweeten your beverage) to the same barrista, who not only cannot anticipate my order, but, two days out of the week will invariably mess up and add milk to my coffee. This morning I felt particularly mean; I dumped the brew out, and stonily re-placed my order. She apologized profusely (of course), whereupon I, having worked in food service for much of my adolescent years and having no patience for inadequacy in this sector, said 'I come here every morning and ask for black coffee. What can I do to make this easier for you?' She, flustered (of course) turned on the defensive and asked why I didn't drink milk - didn't I know it was healthy? I keep telling myself I won't return to the Starbucks, but there's simply nowhere else to go at 7:50 in the morning.
After an hour of fuming and reading, I cross the street. My office building - Shanghai Times Square - is rather beautiful. There's a sprawling marble lobby connected to a sprawling marble shopping mall, in which string quartets and French handbags are found. Said lobby is overstaffed (of course) with ten or twelve suits ready to take your umbrella, open the door, wish you good morning, push the buttons on the elevator. As I walked in today, I could see that the elevator doors were open, and picked up pace, making frantic eye contact with the lobby attendant guarding the Up button like a beardless bridge troll. He (and everyone in the elevator) ignored me, and the doors shut in my face. I threw my hands up, at a loss for words. The kid shrugged, turned and belatedly pushed the button.
* * *
Chinese attitudes towards other races and cultures stems from (I'd like to believe) a simple lack of accessibility. Most of China's population is contained in rural, land-locked areas, and has been for many generations. Foreigners and foreign cultures are a rarity. Shanghai, despite being an "international" city, is, from a mere visual perspective, much less diverse than what I'm accustomed to seeing in California, in college, in New York. The expats self-segregate - language being the primary barrier, followed by social culture, which is much more family-oriented among the Chinese. My colleagues - with curious and not malicious intent - ask me what I think of blacks, Indians and the Japanese. When I say - a little huffily - that there's not much to "think", the line of questioning inevitably becomes more objectionable (to my politically-tuned sensibilities, anyway):

'What do Americans think of black people?'
'What do Americans think of Chinese people?'
'What do Americans think of China?'

I try demonstrate that these types of questions are silly, by retorting with equally inane inquiries that generalize the Chinese:

'What do Chinese people think of George Bush?'
'What do Chinese women like in Chinese men?'
'What do Chinese people want?'
* * *
Seriously outdated notions, I guess, exist in every country that isn't America. Chinese people have some curious ideas about health and nutrition, no doubt passed down uninterrupted and unquestioned through generations upon generations. One that irks me in particular on this sweltering summer afternoon is their aversion to cold drinking water. Cold water is bad for the stomach, my colleagues tell me whenever I complain that our water cooler (I only just noticed the irony) dispenses only hot and room-temperature liquid. That's not true! I want to say, but it would be a moot point. I've noticed that the Chinese are strangely stubborn about certain traditional beliefs, an observation which seems to be at odds with their reputed highly-tuned technical skills and a lack of religion. I calmly remind myself that tepid water hydrates more efficiently, and silently down a glass.

food and some verses

One does not need one's own expense account, if one is in possession of friends with expense accounts. Here's a rundown of the most recent stakes (steaks?) settled in my culinary conquest of Shanghai's finest on Wall Street's dollars:


Xiao Nan Guo (that's 'southern country' and not 'grief') - The boys wanted some local flavor, so I suggested the Huanghe Lu branch (at Beijing Xi Lu) of this Shanghai staple - a modern, minimalist space, with two stories of buxom booths. I, as in all cases when each Chinese menu item isn't illustrated, asked the waitress to select some zhao pai cai - signature dishes - for us. She returned with a savory selection of Shanghainese fare: spongy gluton cakes, "lion head" meatballs (taste like childhood), soup dumplings (taste like goodness), sweet roasted pigs' knuckles (singularly responsible for atrocious CNY weight gain) and a thick pumpkin chowder.

M on the Bund - It was unanimously confirmed by poll respondents (read: the six people I know in Shanghai) to offer the very best view of Pudong, and additionally, to be "the most popular restaurant in Shanghai" by Zagat. Certainly, it boasts a swanky waterfront address (Bund 5) and a seventh-floor terrace above its lieutenant-in-noveau French sex appeal, the notorious Glamour Bar. We opened with an artistic foie gras triptych (the caramelized pineapple pate taking the cake) and lamb dumplings (Turkish, I believe) in a kicky yogurt. The service was sadly unimpressive (particularly in overstaffed Shanghai), and I and my poor jet-lagged guest wandered out onto the terrace to kill time, taking in the Pudong skyline (looking, that night, as God intended) before commencing onto continental fusion entrees - the zhao pai salt leg of lamb, and stuffed garfish. I dare to say that the food was tasty, but somewhat boring.


Ding Tai Feng - Somebody had the brilliant idea to put an epicurean spin on soup(dumpling)to (ginkgo)nuts Shanghainese street food. The flagship establishment is in Taipei, and it's nightly booked - lines of coiffed couples and businessmen waiting to pay a pretty penny for gourmet-style dumplings. We lunched at the Xin Tian Di branch in Shanghai (unfortunately, less lovely before dark) on ma la mien (noodles swimming in meaty, glutinous sauce), crab meat and the zhao pai pork soup dumplings.

Sun with Aqua - Our second dinner on the Bund - a sultry Japanese affair - pwnd the experience at M, in my humble opinion. S with A sits pretty across from M on Guangdong Lu, on the second floor of newer, sleeker Bund 3. We were greeted by a large live shark tank at the entrance, and led to the spacious seating area, where we ordered an eel hotpot, a spider roll to share, kobe beef marinating in a bubbling caramel-miso concoction and hot, dry sake for two. Following dessert (a decadent white chocolate apple creme brulee and a seriously spot-hitting mango sago pudding), we explored the bar. We sat, digesting with cocktails in a dimly-lit booth sheathed in translucent black silk curtains, watching the ferries pass on the river and the changing lights of the Pearl Orient, small carnivores pacing the luminescent wall-to-wall shark aquarium behind us. Fireworks sprayed unexpectedly over the Pudong skyline then, as if to confirm that Yes. This is money.

Herbal Legend - The South Block of Xin Tian Di on a warm spring night particularly evokes the faux-Paris the architects no doubt had in mind when they build it. Herbal Legend is dwarfed by its more prominent neighbors, namely, ZEN, Nice Paris, and the Belgian Beer Garden. The gimmick is "medicinal nourishment", and the fare was surprisingly light for Chinese food. Here, the zhao pai cai featured mushrooms, white meat, and several bamboo shoot varieties.

Yongfu Elite - A certain glamorous jet setter has been pushing this name on me for weeks. I foolishly put it off until last night, and am regretful that I've not tried harder to rendez-vous at this turn-of-the-century-French-estate-turned-British-Consulate-turned-restaurant. Yongfu Elite is nestled in the Concession district, and boasts a couple of acres of stylishly unkempt wild fruit and rose bushes. Antique sofas are scattered throughout the moonlit garden space, among the charming koi ponds, the elegant slouching willow trees and the romantic climbing ivy. The mansion itself has been largely preserved, and what might have been considered gaudy at one time - crystal pillars, dusty jade lions, mahogany archways - appealed to our shared view of charm. We dined on the first-floor terrace overlooking the grounds and under a clear sky. The food wasn't spectacular ('yi ban' is the fitting descriptor) -coconut beef, a buttered spinach dish, standard Shanghai glazed lotus roots, red wine and two awfully strong martinis - but the dining experience more than made up for any shortcomings on the flavor front.

labor weekend - 5.1 - 5.4

China's got a lot of national holidays (thirteen? I believe?). Shanghai, conveniently, has a wealth of weekend getaways within a two-hour radius. I booked a train ticket and a room in a hostel on the edge of the mythically iconic West Lake in Hangzhou for Labor Day (commemorated ironically with two labor-less days), and left the city on Thursday afternoon. The seventy-eight minute ride was disappointingly devoid of scenic counsel, and I was a little jarred to find, upon arrival, that this, the capital of Zhejiang Province, wasn't the idyllic isle I'd imagined, but rather a cosmopolitan that so strongly resembled Shanghai, it was difficult to feel that I'd left. Following a couple hours of directional mishaps (there always are), I found myself in the bustling shopping district that passerbys alleged to be near to the lake. Following a couple more hours of meandering through glitzy WuShan park and bar-studded QingBoMen, I located the hostel, and was informed that my bed had been reassigned, on account of my missing my check-in appointment by, let's see, five? hours. I opted to sleep on the sofa in the lounge, beside two collie puppies for the night, and was permitted to do so free of charge. I'd been on my feet for many hours, and slept quite immediately and soundly.
The following morning, I packed books and bikini and strolled the fifteen kilometer periphery of the lake, pausing at pleasant-seeming grass patches to progress in my reading, or to nap. It was lovely:








After sundown, I found a cafe and a blind massage parlor, and indulged appetite, shoulders, respectively.
I took a bus on the third morning to Lingyin Temple. The Temple itself is scattered along the down-slope of North Peak (sadly, the Chinese never name with pizazz). I followed the signs, unaware that an hour-long uphill hike would be there to gauge my commitment to seeing the sixteen-hundred year old Buddhist "soul's retreat".
The view from the top:



By the time I began the descent, my desire to tour a temple had waned, so I instead lunched in the surrounding village before returning to West Lake.



The last evening was spent like the one before it, sunbathing and reading, interspersed with the occasional dip. It was lovely, and by the time my sunburned, urban return rolled around the next morning, I was sufficiently brown and drowsy; weakened from a terribly relaxing weekend.