Nanjing 2004.5

The train ride to Shanghai. Hard seats, which we shared with a couple of young student-aged girls. Everyone is a character in China. The two folks sitting across from Haw-Wen were a couple, college sweethearts escaping to Shanghai together for a break. The older woman next to Haw-Wen used to be in the military. Her demeanor carried certainty. The little girl who sat next to me was spoiled rotten, throwing the archetypical tantrum every few minutes, stomping her feet on the floor and whining in increasingly higher pitches, like a train taking off from hell. Her mother looked like a starved albino weasel, and her attempts to assuage her daughter were simply futile. The woman sitting across from me who I kept stealing glances at was married to a chef who now works in Shanghai. She takes care of their one-year old while he works, and they are able to meet perhaps only twice a year. "The conditions aren't ripe for us to live in Shanghai," she says distractedly.
Certainly, it wasn't worth RMB 220 a night, but it was a place, and it was raining outside, and the hostels we had checked out earlier were just shit. The location was okay. But I knew we could do better. At least we would get breakfast for free.
Nanjing is full of cute shops and restaurants, and we were tempted by each in turn. This one (土菜王) lured us with its bright, friendly lights and cozy white and wooden interior. We passed it the first day out, and promised to return.
I like the colors here; it is as if a blacksmith's molten iron, steam rising from the angry creation. The lights were so intense that the raindrops vanished quickly from its glassy surface. My shoes were not the same. The cold and wetness seeped through and squishing noises commenced. As if my feet didn't already have enough wrinkles, among other problems.

Good stuff, Uyghur food. Lamb skewers, "Big Dish 'o Chicken", greens and mushrooms, and heavy bread that just sucked up the juices you dipped it into, a tinge of sweetness. We really enjoyed the potatoes in the chicken dish, as well as the noodles you could dip into the sauce. We really enjoyed eating at all, hungry from wandering around in the unforgiving rain. I thought the little hats the servers wore were very cute, enhancing the femininity of their traditional outfits. The same two bouncy minority songs replayed themselves countless times, I imagined them jumping and cartwheeling to the happy horns. Of course the dance must be passed on.
We took an early morning bus to QiXia Temple (栖霞寺). Within the little pond at the entrance stirred a few well camouflaged turtles, hiding in the grasses. What luxurious lives they lead. No wonder they are a symbol of longevity.
After breaking the lines of the incense hawkers, we see the spirited entrance to the temple. Does the wax flow signify the passage of time, rolling down from the flame, hardening into precarious stalactites that eventually totter into the frothing soup below? The flame breathes life into the ready medium, which, ironically, seeks only the fastest path toward oblivion after being freed.
I bet I'd be a pretty good boddhisatva.

Taking photos at unexpected angles yields surprisingly powerful results. I really like this perspective.
Some little caves with timeless buddhas inside. Too bad cultural misfits came along during the cultural revolution and beheaded most of them. What do these motley images of Buddha mean to monks who now answer cell phones, slip around the monastery in new Adidas, and smoke? We ascended the tourist infested hills, enveloped in green.
Haw-Wen spotted this guy ambling across the path. I could have squished it very easily without even noticing. Legs undulating and body static, it never slips. We debated whether it was actually poisonous, given its alarming coloring. And how that doesn't matter if you find yourself on the hoof of some larger land-roving beast. That reminds me of the arcade game where you used to destroy centipedes, spiders, falling larvae, and other nasty critters with your crummy pea shooter. Who thought up that game anyway? Must've been a programmer who had been attacked by one in his sleep.
Just another tree-lined street back in Nanjing, bike and pedestrian friendly. The weather was marvelous. We explored deeper into the alleys we found looking for cheap hostels and good restaurants, snacking on bready foods.
Whoops, bridge under construction. Turn around.

These convenience stores were all over the place in Nanjing, but unfortunately they are still not up to par with Hong Kong and Taiwanese 7-Elevens. Most importantly, they lack a good drink selection. The drinks you can get here right now largely suck. No cool milk teas. No guava or mango drinks. Everything seems so unhealthy. Don't give me that 鲜橙多 crap; I've realized what a gimmick it is, especially for RMB 3. Just sugar water. And I am sure it has been acquired by one of the American cola companies. Milk tea isn't the best for you either, but I'll take it over carbonation, caffeine, and colors any day. Haw-Wen's got the "V for victory" sign down pat. She's doing alright on the cuteness factor too!
We shouldn't buy things that are unfixable. I "fixed" a computer monitor in the office recently by removing the on-off switch; the physical latch on the circuit board had broken, so I set it in the on position and removed the switch so that no one would be able to turn it off, lest we be unable to turn it back on. Haw-Wen's bag zipper was fixed for RMB 1. Cheap and effective. People in the US only seem to know how to throw things away. Not that the Chinese are better; they are only forced to reuse because their resources are more limited. They treat with equal indifference the things which do not seem scarce. Skewers, napkins and toilet paper, plastic bags, seeds, pits, shells, bones, candy wrappers. All of which are set aflame by the smoldering coal bricks the restaurant owners carry out to the side of the street, releasing noxious fumes which engulf the whole region and causing everyone's eyes to become irritated. But not in Nanjing.
Well, it wasn't as delicious as we'd hoped. The 盐水鸭 is the same as Mom would have made it, and the crispy deep fried squash was pretty tasteless (not to mention we didn't order it in the first place). The best part: creamy white farmer's soup, gingery and full of vegetable and ham goodness. The 蕨菜 was bad, but even worse was how they conspired to make us pay RMB 18 for it. I don't mean to defame this otherwise quaint restaurant, though. Maybe we just didn't order very well. But the conversations we spun more than satisfied. 要得.
要得！要不得！
The Fuzi Temple pedestrian walk was pretty large, packed with young tourists, a consumer mecca. It is reminiscent of the night markets in Taipei, except there are fewer small vendors, the avenues are wider, and the selection of delectable delights is more limited. We opted for some KFC ice cream, which we agreed was simply not as good as McDonalds'.
We stayed at this cute little place on Baixia Street (白下路) called the Popular Hostel (好人缘旅社). We were immediately impressed by how clean the place was. The woodens floors sparkled; not a speck of dirt was to be found. Although situated adjacent to a high school, it seemed quiet during the holiday. The owners insisted that they would be sold out every day, and that at RMB 100 a night our double was a steal. Sure enough, the hostel was sold out by the time we returned at night. We fibbed a little, pretending to be Chinese students who studied abroad in the US who had returned to China to travel. I was afriad that after all of our bargaining they would refuse us, being unable to accommodate foreigners. I never did get this issue settled. I asked the boss the day we left whether foreigners were allowed to stay there, and he said he didn't know.
The view from our room on the second floor was quite pleasant. The tree-lined boulevards give Nanjing a convivial and fresh atmosphere.
I gawked and groaned at the line of people we saw as the taxi pulled up to the Nanjing Massacre Memorial. God, there are enough tourists as it is when they have to pay for tickets; how much worse would it be when admittance was free? Fortunately, the memorial occupies a huge space and there is plenty of room for hundreds of people to float through without feeling the least bit rushed, crowded, or otherwise encroached upon. The two stages of the line moved along briskly, and soon we were let loose inside.
Two munchkins played with each other all the while and did not seem distracted by the wait. Chinese kids are so cute.
Greeted by a bell. The inscription on the left says "Peaceful New World Order". I couldn't help but wonder whether this call to peace has fluttered from the minds of the Chinese policy makers who threaten to lay siege on Taiwan should it declare independence. We do not value peace when we have it, at least not those of us who have never experienced wartimes.
Statistic.
If it weren't for the people who left these footprints, the story of the Nanjing Massacre might have forever been buried with the bodies of the lost, their ashes mixed into the winds of change. People fancy walking in the direction the footprints lead, so I thought I'd take a picture from where they are going.

The symbolism of the graveyard is muted but powerful. You discover it slowly, coming upon it from around a corner, from a perspective in which you look down upon it. The struggling grass seems a breath of hope and regrowth, though green in this photo it was still rather spare. You circle around it, relief carvings of tortured Chinese, bound, burned, raped, drowned, suggest the depth of human suffering which time has sought to mend.
Back at Fuzi Temple. The place was bigger than we thought. I needed to eat something and fast. We settled on some 拉面. You can waste a lot of time pacing around looking for a restaurant that strikes your fancy, but when it comes down to it you just need your stomach filled. Sometimes I've contemplated the meaning of spending a lot of money on food. After the meal, however enjoyable it was, and after any lingering sensation of satisfaction have dissapated, we are left fundamentally in the same state. With a new masticatory memory, yes, but it is not the same as having read a book, watched a movie, or attended an opera. Whether 拉面 or pâté de foie gras, the taste is but a memory; all we know is that our stomachs have ceased complaining for the time being, with the equal certainty that before long they will rebel once more. Why spend so much on food? Why are we such slaves to variety? Why the desire to sample all the fruits of the world? This endless groping and desiring has made us what we are.
I just liked the colors.
People mountain people sea. But they're behind so you can't see them. A little tourist trap in the Fuzi Temple area. As I remember from last summer, those pedal boats are a bit harder to maneuver than they seem.
On the hike up to the Sun Yatsen Mausoleum (中山陵).
Hiking hiking hiking. The views on the ascent are quite striking, as the series of deep blue rooftops unfold one by one.

"I know Kung Fu!" The late afternoon shadows stretch across the stairs. Getting back home was a fucking nightmare. For some asinine reason, the buses to the area stop running at 5:30p. We had a chance to get on the last bus, which at the time we were not aware of as being the last bus, but we missed it. Stupid. And I don't mean us.
Of course, the mops are all laid out to dry on the men's side. We know who's been doing the hard work of keeping those public toilets clean!
Establish a Civilized, Honest Business District! Promote the Harmonious Development of the Three Civilizednesses! The Standard of Three "No's": No spitting everywhere. No smoking in public places. No uttering uncouth, vulgar speech. No throwing garbage everywhere. No destruction of the flora. No damaging of public facilities. No running red lights.
The Nanjing bus station is amazing, and run like an airport. There are separate waiting areas for each bus line and clean toilet facilities. Boarding is announced over the loudspeakers in clear, standard Mandarin. Lines form orderly. You get a little bottle of water before you get on the bus. The staff are smartly dress and in uniform. Once you're outside walking toward your bus, people with prominent red signs are waiting to direct you to the right place. There was even a water dispenser on the bus, and a magazine pouch on the backs of the seats. Overhead storage compartments. The only smudge in this otherwise celestial travel experience was the couplet of gaudy, harem-related movies they showed en route.
Honestly, can you make a bigger mistake? Come on, now.
We were initially suspicious of the deposit sum for the bikes, RMB 150 each; the stupid place suggested by the Lonely Planet wanted RMB 250 each. It wiped out the money I had just withdrawn from the bank, but the bikes seems fairly new and sturdy, and we were itching for a ride. When we returned the bikes the next day, the man actually gave us a discount; 4 yuan per bike instead of 5. I couldn't believe it, and felt a little embarrassed getting the 2 yuan change from him. We kicked the tires, zipped the bells, and tested the brakes. Ah, freedom here we come!
Met this couple of lads in a Xinjiang restaurant not far from the Humble Administrator's Garden (拙政园) in Suzhou. The guy on my left got so excited speaking with us, and asked us all sorts of questions. And Haw-Wen kept sneaking glances at the other guy, who apparently was amazingly handsome despite his short stature. The restaurant had a charming, comfortable feel to it, which was amplified by the tastiness of the Yak meat, so tender. I didn't know that 红烧牛肉 would be 红烧牦牛肉! After such a delicious meal, we were in high spirits and ready to tackle the garden.
The gardens were brilliantly designed and immensely pleasurable to explore.

The sun shining just so made the flowers erupt in pink flame.
Fish hiding in giant jars. A gruesome sight waited for us in one: an eyeball of one of the the big-eyed fish had been ripped off and lay at the bottom. Gross. And other fish had died and were floating motionless in their funeral vessels. Eew.
Nice try, don't even think of pushing me.
Watery corridor.
Bonsai garden.
Girls with parasols. The were stealing glances at me, I'm sure.
And the exit. The gardens cover a large area. I especially liked how the paths were entertwined like roots. There was no single obvious path through the garden; you made a choice as to where to go next at every turn. And you never felt like you had reached a dead end; the path always continued by winding back or disappearing around yet another bend or doorway. It's obvious that some very potent philosophy lay behind the design of this haven for scholars.
We tried to make it to the Silk Museum, but they closed at 4:45p. (Who closes at 4:45p? What a stupid time to close.) Biking through the alleys running along the canals was perhaps even more rewarding. Stone arches bridge the waters at intervals, the crossroads busier than usual. But quiet at the same time.
Roof.
A shot along the canal.
One more reminiscent of classical Suzhou, which one sees in ones dreams and the wall paintings, which are not so different.
The entrance to the Coiled Gate in the dark. We were too late to be tourists, but not too late to enjoy the feeling of exploring the cool night on our bikes.
It ended up being RMB 50 a person, but the food and conversation were well worth it at this Japanese restaurant on Shiquan Street (十全街). The set meals were filling, the sushi fresh, the tea refilled many times. Just like all other Chinese, at first they suspected that we were a couple, not brother and sister. The man on the left told us about his divorce. Relationships in China now center on money. But what can you do if you don't have money? If your income is RMB 1200 a month, you can support yourself, but what about your family? At this rate, your wife will probably leave you, no matter that you have a son or daughter. She will look for someone with more money. So I've become more cynical about women in China. Practical or not, it just leaves a bad taste. But I think students are more innocent; they are not overly concerned with money or the future, because the present is engaging enough. When I find too much practicality among students, I am disgusted. He told us that, given the chance, he would go the the US in a heartbeat. Sure, I'd be alone, sure, its not the most moral country, but I'd have stability. I'd have a chance to make my life better. It's a democracy, and you can see that in the way people deal with each other. I wouldn't have to deal with the assholes in society and government who do as they damn well please and who you can't touch.
ON.
OFF. What a cool TV. You actually depress the buttons on the set to change the channel. It feels like you've done some work to change the channel, and now that it's changed, it's gonna stay changed, dammit! You can even adjust the channel frequency by turning the knobs next to each button behind the panel. Reminded me of our old TV at home. This old technology just seems so robust and hardy, like you can't break it, and even if you did it would be easy and straighforward to fix. The only amenity in our basic room. I don't count the bastard mosquitos which tormented us all night as anything but gifts from hell.
Vivian.
View from Vivian's place in Shanghai, on 法华镇路.
Obligatory picture of us on the Bund.
This was a successful photo; it captures something special. The two individuals in the background were hugging and kissing each other gleefully to no end, quite funny actually, but also rather jealousy-inducing. Walking alone the water recalls the Hong Kong harbor. A spot in this busy, impersonal, expanding metropolis where two people can spend a quiet, intimate moment. Outside. And the romantic wind blows.
Uncle took us on a whirlwind tour of Shanghai's tourist spots. The word that comes to mind is "mellow". He walked ahead of us, leading us, and when we would stop to gaze at one item of interest or another he would backtrack to find us. He had a cold, but there was a spryness in his footsteps.
In the Peace Hotel there is a box for spent batteries. Go environmentalism!
Heading down to 城隍庙.
Ooh, nice meal! Crystal shrimp we dipped in vinegar, Gui fish (鳜鱼), Steamed crab dumplings, and more. Warm rice wine. With the backdrop of tourists wandering across the 9-Twists Bridge. Very close to where my wallet was stolen two years ago. This time, though, there was actually water under the bridge, and it was less hectic than it was then. It felt peaceful, even.

绿波廊, the restaurant we ate at. Good stuff. This image reminds me of Final Fantasy IIV, all those traditional red buildings spattered with all sorts of flashy and outrageous contemporary colors. It could be a gambling den. The mob boss' mansion. Or maybe the bathhouse from Spirited Away.
A modern pagoda. The 经贸大厦 is really a spectacular building; well architected, even giving off a Chinese aura, and lavishly decorated within. Uncle took us inside the Hyatt, first to the restaurant level, then to the open bar level, then to the exclusive bar level where there is a minimum expenditure of RMB 110 per person. An absurd amount. From the open bar, you can look up at the spiraling hotel halls; it is a scene from some science fiction movie, a hall on a starship cruiser perhaps.
The Pudong shore of the river, looking out on the Bund. This reminded me even more of Hong Kong. Cuddling couples.
Vivian swiped her RMB 5000 restaurant card and treated us to this fine albeit tardy breakfast. Chilled soy milk (豆浆), 油条, curry biscuits (咖喱饺), and fried dumplings, Shanghai style (生煎包). Nothing like a good breakfast to get you into that shopping state of mind.

I'm fairly happy with this picture. It emphasizes the interface between the layer of reality shown to the consumer and the hidden layer which conceals all the machinery. We step from one world to another. Behind the lush product encumbered walls, the saleswomen are normal people. The open their little lockers and take sips of tea, talk on the phone, nibble at food, rush to use the bathroom, and are anything but machines. I was reminded of working at the Sagamore; stepping from the inner office to the front desk was another example of such a crossing between worlds.
Japanese operated. They never could pronounce those "l's". Women inside were practically screaming at each other.
Speaking of classical musicians ... Hi, Arturo! Let's talk Linux. On the train, heading home. Home.
All good things must come to an end. Just so with our vacation and that of Leslie and her parents. Back in Changsha, we were able to share one last, somewhat hurried meal at 元味 before parading to the airport shuttle with luggage in tow. The Changsha heat assaulted us immediately, a big change from the brisk weather in Nanjing, Suzhou, and Shanghai. Yes, we were home.