Cab 355, Where Are You?

Thursday, January 28, 2010

I’ve told Bernie he really has to see the view from the UFO observation tower, so this morning we are taking a taxi to the top of the hill. Bernie’s hip wouldn’t like the steep climb. After that, we’ll shop for a down coat for me and something to make for dinner.

When we arrive at the parking lot below the UFO tower, Bernie asks the driver if he can wait for us. That doesn’t seem to be a good idea, so he asks if he’ll come back and pick us up in 45 minutes. This works-he’ll come back at 1:00 p.m. Bernie and the driver point at watches. The driver shows us his license plate-it ends in 355-so we’ll know we have the right cab. More pointing at watches, the pavement of the parking lot, the license plate, and then shaking heads in agreement.

The walk to the tower is up many flights of stairs. But it’s worth it. At the top the view is a 360 degree panorama of the harbor, more apartment buildings than we could count, and cranes everywhere building more offices and apartments.

Below us, too, is the sculpture I noticed on Monday. We can see now that it is not a winged victory-perhaps a winged horse. Pegasus has a very special meaning for me. In the next few days I’ll get a closer look.

We’re back at the parking lot by 12:55. Here there’s a large bell (think 8 feet high) where, at special celebrations, families come here to ring the bell for good luck. I think you have to make an appointment to do it.

We watch cars pull into the lot: a group of businessmen, several couples, a taxi. Not ours, though. It’s now a little after 1:00. We look at each other but neither of us says anything as the taxi pulls away. We were both thinking we should have taken the bird in the hand taxi.

A few more minutes pass. The group of businessmen return from the tower, nod to us, and get in their car. I walk to the other end of the lot near the path I came up on Monday. Bernie sits down on a bench. We try to make out the sign behind us. Still no sign of our taxi.

There’s a park attendant in one of the ubiquitous little buildings we see lots of places (mostly gate houses). Bernie goes over, knocks on the door and asks the man if it’s possible for him to call a taxi for us. Nope, not possible. He motions down the hill and holds up five fingers. Apparently it’s a five-minute walk.

We have no choice and Bernie thinks going downhill won’t be a problem for him. We think the driver had good intentions when he left us. Who knows what happened? A really good fare? Tied up in traffic? (Unlikely, since we’ve seen what Chinese cab drivers do-swerve into the oncoming lane to get around a car they think isn’t moving fast enough, squeeze-make that nudge-into a space that’s impossible – but this is a tale for another day.)

The walk down is really nice, not long, and Bernie’s hip isn’t hurting. This is a lovely park and you can tell that in summer it would be wonderful. Lots of people are walking here today.

Back on our street, we hail another cab. I’m not taking it if its license plate ends in 355, though.

It doesn’t, and we go downtown. For lunch, it’s Dairy Queen hot dogs with chili. Bernie orders while I find a toilet.

Believe the guidebooks when they tell you 1) all toilets in China are at floor level and you will need to squat and 2) there is no toilet paper in Chinese toilets. This is not an exaggeration. No matter how modern the stores, no matter how elegant the clientele, the potties are holes in the floor and you’d better have that little pack of tissues in your pocket. Oh, and you toss the tissue into a wastebasket. Too much information? Oh, come on, you were curious.

Hands washed, but with no towels or dryer, just rubbed on my jeans, I join Bernie at one of the tables. This is such a fun people-watching place. There are five floors, all arranged in a ¾ circle around us, and it’s busy.

The chili on these hot dogs is bright red. Bernie discovers it doesn’t wipe off your hands easily, either. He’s already started his. I take a bite. This chili is hot! I think it’s the Chinese red pepper that gives it the bright red color. But it’s good, and soon gone.

Now for the hunt for a down coat. Bernie will wait for me on the ground floor.
This place has more coats for sale than you have ever seen in your life – hundreds and hundreds of them. They’re beautiful, too. Such a variety of styles and colors. Cold weather fashion at its best. But how to spot a down-filled one?

Up and down the aisles. Unlike at home, there are plenty of salespeople to help you (it’s like shopping in the mid-20th century in the U.S., only with more cool stuff). Some of them approach, and I try to tell them what I want. That’s the difficult part. I know two phrases in Chinese now that I’ve been here for ten days: hello and thank you. But I know that if I use Shannon’s phone dictionary to ask for a down coat it’s going to tell the salesgirl that I want a coat that goes in the direction that’s opposite of up. That will only land me in a bigger muddle, so I soldier on.

My tactic now is to walk up to coats and squeeze the sleeve if I even think the coat may have down filling. This must be a funny sight, a woman walking through a department store squeezing coats.

After pinching about two dozen coats one feels different and I look for a tag that might be printed in English as well as Chinese. I see something even better. Attached to the label is a small plastic see-through locket-like box filled with down!

This one fits. I point to the coat and say “Harbin.” The salesgirl grabs a piece of paper and writes -30. Yes, I say nodding my head, and ask if this coat is warm enough for Harbin.

“Harbin. This. Yes.” More than her words, her manner tells me she understands me.
In China the salesperson does not take your money. She writes up a ticket, in triplicate and you take it to the cashier. Although China is a cash society, I’m hoping they will take my MasterCard here. The coat is less expensive than it would have been at home, but I’m trying to keep as much money in my checking account as possible, and suck it out slowly through the ATMs.

MasterCard is ok. Once I’ve paid, I return to the department where the salesgirl is holding my coat. She tucks two washcloths with colorful designs inside the bag. “Happy New Year,” she says, and I thank her. Nice touch.

Now it’s time to find the very heavy long underwear lined with fur-like fleece that I passed while searching for the coat. I find a pair that even has extra padding at the knees.

This time my purchase – 128 RB-is too small for a credit card. I know I have only 70 RMB in my wallet. I go back to Bernie on the first floor for more money.
He’s talking to a young lady (why am I not surprised?) who mans a tourist booth touting all the new development in Kaifaqu (Ky-fawk-choo).

Back up the escalator for my pants.

I’m pleased with my purchases, but I’m also very pleased that I was able to negotiate the transactions.

In department stores prices are set, items have price tags, and there is no bargaining. In many other stores in the shopping are of Kaifaqu, however, bargaining is expected, so I’m looking forward to honing my skills in those places another day. You don’t need to speak Chinese; just write down your offer.

I rejoin Bernie and talk for a few minutes with the young woman. Young people in China like to speak English. They study it from the time they start school.

We buy a piece of chocolate cake to take home for dessert later, and then I take the escalator down to the lower floor where the Trust Mart is located. It’s owned by Wal-Mart. There are also several Wal-Mart stores around Dalian.

Bernie’s hip is bothering him from the walk down the hill this morning, so he’s going to take a table near the Dairy Queen booth and wait for me.

I’m so looking forward to this. I’d advise everyone to go to the grocery store wherever you travel. It’s hard to turn a grocery store into a tourist trap, unless you’re Jungle Jim. You’ll get a real taste of the lives of real people in any area by going to the place where they buy food.

Even in places like this I’m more likely to look and linger than Bernie. He’s all “what do we need?” and zipping around the store.

Today I’m on a mission, though. I need meat and vegetables for dinner. A stroll through the meat section of a Chinese grocery-even the more westernized ones-is an experience. There are some familiar cuts-pork chops, steaks-but there are also cases of pig’s feet, chicken feet, chicken cut in ways you’ve not seen unless you grew up on a farm in the 1950s. Dozens of varieties of fish and shellfish (many of them see to stare at you with cold eyes) are stacked in bins of crushed ice.
Every fish we’ve eaten in China has been delicious, but I’m at a loss as to what I’m looking at.

The display of salmon catches my eye. Here’s something I know how to cook. I select a couple of pieces. Snow peas and two things that look like crispy potato pancakes (here’s where I get a bit adventurous) and I’m ready for the checkout.

Dinner is delicious. We baked the salmon with some olive oil and herbs. The potato cakes really were –potatoes cut to hash brown size, onions and carrots-browned to perfection and crisp on the outside.

Our favorite evening entertainment is watching episodes of Lost, and after washing the dishes we settle in for a couple of hours on the island.