Friday, February 19, 2010
Today's shopping is not going so well. New Mart is closed, so I can't roam the stalls there.
I fear passing up those pretty lacquered trays in Beijing I wanted to get for the girls was a mistake. I'm not finding any of those in Kaifaqu today.
China, vases, and pretty tea sets are abundant, but I'm afraid they'll get broken.
On top of that, I think my grocery list fell out of my pocket in the taxi and I can't reconstruct it in my head.
But even a non-productive shopping trip is an experience in Kaifaqu today. In front of the bakery a young man has placed a cremation urn on a blanket on the sidewalk and kneels praying, apparently keeping track of the number of petitions with chalk marks.
Loudspeakers blare from storefronts (McDonald's is especially deafening but others are worthy contenders). We walk down a sidestreet where vendors have set up shop on the sidewalk offering a variety of cheap goods.
Across the street food vendors preside. One sells sugar cane and as we come alongside he's stripping the barklike outer layer off a piece for a man and woman. He cuts it in half and wraps the bottom in plastic wrap and they suck on it like a lollipop. Bernie says he and his cousins used to do this when he stayed on the farm as a kid.
Next door the spiral-cut pineapples get our vote for the best-looking item on offer here.
A group of men stand in a circle intensely looking at a board on the ground. This is a gambling game. Bernie watches for awhile; I don't think the best place for me is in a crowd of Chinese men on the street.
Another crowd has gathered farther down the street, though, and Bernie calls me over to look this time. It's a painter, using an unusual brush to hand decorate a calendar.
At the grocery we get as many things as we can remember, then take a taxi home.
We watch four episodes of Lost. When we pause for a break I check my e-mail.
Shannon and Damon are coming home tomorrow night rather than Sunday. At least that's the plan if the weather holds.
Tomorrow's plan is changed. No shopping - just cleaning and straightening.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Red Eye Recovery, Random Thoughts
Thursday, February 18, 2010
It seems to be much warmer today, judging by the temperature of the kitchen this morning.
We're not going out, though. Today we'll do laundry and relax.
I'm hoping the red has gone from my eyes. Beijing's air kept them red-rimmed. The dust from the fast-encroaching Gobi Desert, barely 150 miles away now, and pollution in the city have an effect on breathing (my cough returned)as well.
We're happy to be back at our Dalian home. It's bright, with lots of light from the large windows and the sliding glass doors leading to the kitchen and the balcony. We have hard floors-much cleaner than carpet. And the space heaters in the living room and bedroom help keep it comfortable no matter what the outside temperature.
One of the first things we learned from Shannon was that the radiator heat in the apartment is turned on by the government in November and turned off again in March. The grid is owned by the government, and they control it.
Our drinking water supply is a water cooler, like those we have in offices back home. Aiye arranges for new bottles when she comes in to clean. We put the empty bottle on the table in the dining room along with 15 RMB. Aiye calls someone on her cell phone, and soon a new bottle is delivered (up five flights of stairs).
Aiye wasn't here this Tuesday while we were gone. We think she was off for the holiday. We still have an unopened water bottle, but it occurred to me today that, should something happen to prevent Aiye from being here for a week or so, we'd be without drinking water.
We could boil water, of course, but since Shannon told us it's safe for brushing our teeth, I don't think it's bacteria we have to worry about. Chemicals are the more likely cause for concern.
There is virtually no place in China where the water is safe.
Of course my mind's logic says that if no water is safe and yet we're buying bottled water, where does that water come from?
Sometimes, when you're thirsty, it's best not to think too hard on these things. Bottoms up.
Our mattress is a palm husk mattress, about four inches thick, atop box springs. All mattresses we've seen in China are hard, except for the one at the Hilton in Beijing, and we expected to find western stuff there.
Today's the last day I can loaf around, though one of our goals is to get in the remaining episodes of Lost, which will really require some marathon watching.
But I also need to do more laundry, buy gifts(along with another suitcase to take them home-we're permitted two pieces of checked luggage and we each only have one now), and replenish any grocery staples we've used here.
So tomorrow, it's off to An Sheng Mall.
It seems to be much warmer today, judging by the temperature of the kitchen this morning.
We're not going out, though. Today we'll do laundry and relax.
I'm hoping the red has gone from my eyes. Beijing's air kept them red-rimmed. The dust from the fast-encroaching Gobi Desert, barely 150 miles away now, and pollution in the city have an effect on breathing (my cough returned)as well.
We're happy to be back at our Dalian home. It's bright, with lots of light from the large windows and the sliding glass doors leading to the kitchen and the balcony. We have hard floors-much cleaner than carpet. And the space heaters in the living room and bedroom help keep it comfortable no matter what the outside temperature.
One of the first things we learned from Shannon was that the radiator heat in the apartment is turned on by the government in November and turned off again in March. The grid is owned by the government, and they control it.
Our drinking water supply is a water cooler, like those we have in offices back home. Aiye arranges for new bottles when she comes in to clean. We put the empty bottle on the table in the dining room along with 15 RMB. Aiye calls someone on her cell phone, and soon a new bottle is delivered (up five flights of stairs).
Aiye wasn't here this Tuesday while we were gone. We think she was off for the holiday. We still have an unopened water bottle, but it occurred to me today that, should something happen to prevent Aiye from being here for a week or so, we'd be without drinking water.
We could boil water, of course, but since Shannon told us it's safe for brushing our teeth, I don't think it's bacteria we have to worry about. Chemicals are the more likely cause for concern.
There is virtually no place in China where the water is safe.
Of course my mind's logic says that if no water is safe and yet we're buying bottled water, where does that water come from?
Sometimes, when you're thirsty, it's best not to think too hard on these things. Bottoms up.
Our mattress is a palm husk mattress, about four inches thick, atop box springs. All mattresses we've seen in China are hard, except for the one at the Hilton in Beijing, and we expected to find western stuff there.
Today's the last day I can loaf around, though one of our goals is to get in the remaining episodes of Lost, which will really require some marathon watching.
But I also need to do more laundry, buy gifts(along with another suitcase to take them home-we're permitted two pieces of checked luggage and we each only have one now), and replenish any grocery staples we've used here.
So tomorrow, it's off to An Sheng Mall.
Yonghe Gong, The Lama Temple
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
We have time to visit only one more place in Beijing and we've chosen the Yonghe Gong, or Lama Temple.
It's easy to find; the subway stop bears the name. Soon we're walking down a neighborhood street, so different than the area around Ti'anan Men Square. Restaurants and shops line the street, some of them selling incense for offerings at the temple. Down the street a large street fair is in progress.
This temple, built in 1694, originally housed court eunuchs. Later it became home for a prince destined to become emperor. When he moved to the Forbidden City, half the residence was converted to a monastery and temple and became the home of the Yellow Hat Sect of Buddhism.
Five halls separated by courtyards make up the temple. The halls house statues and paintings. The statues range from slightly larger than life-size to immense. One of the buildings houses a 20-foot statue of the first Dalai Lama.
The statue of the future Buddha (as opposed to the past Buddha and the present Buddha) in the last hall is 60 feet high and was carved from a single piece of white sandalwood. This is the temple's most prized possession. It's very impressive.
This is an active temple, with real monks. It's a showplace for the government to display its tolerance for religion, and the monks and Buddhism represented here are state-approved. The sign on the right just as you enter the complex states that the government spends large sums of money for the upkeep of Yonghe Gong.
There's a separate governing body for Catholics and Protestants, too. Catholic bishops here, for instance, are appointed not by the Vatican, but by the body which oversees Catholicism in China.
The large crowds and no place for quiet meditation of any kind does little to deter worshippers from praying, performing prostrations and making offerings of food and incense. No one is reticent to pray in public. Jostled by dozens of people, people put their hands together and bow, silently offering prayers.
As we are about to enter the third hall, a young woman and a boy of about twelve approach us. She tells us her little brother would like to practice his English with us.
I am frankly disappointed by this, using a child to work the scam. Although we've seen very small children begging in the streets with their mothers, trained to block your way no matter where you step (I picked one child up and moved him in Kaifaqu)it's still painful to see a child schooled in deception.
Bernie is more accommodating than I am. He walks and talks with this young woman and I move on ahead to what we've come to see. We have just a short time here, and I'm unwilling to spend it going through a charade. Somewhere along the line the little boy's "older brother" joins us.
That works to our advantage. Bernie cracks me up when he's the person who suggest we go somewhere for tea. Did he really say that?
The woman puts a little twist on things. She knows a famous Chinese restaurant where we could join all of her family and talk. (The way this works is that the laowai, or foreigner, accompanies one of these people to a teahouse or restaurant where they spend an afternoon, and the laowai is presented with an exorbitant bill, maybe $50 a person. With a family of say, ten, plus us, that could get steep quick.)
Bernie looks at his watch.
"What are you doing this afternoon?" she asks. We've gotten this far in this scam before.
"We're leaving Beijing this afternoon."
"What time is it?" I ask Bernie.
"It's a little past noon," he says.
"What do you think we should do?"
"I think we'd better head back to the hotel and get ready to go.
There. All done. And all absolutely honest, too. Who knows, maybe we've prevented another hapless laowai from being scammed just by occupying her time.
We're truly tired as we take a taxi to the airport. I'd stayed up late last night writing up my notes from the day.
At the airport we run into a Danish man who's married to a Chinese woman he met in Copenhagen whose family lives in Dalian, and an Italian woman whose husband has worked in China for several years and is now in Dalian.
As we descend in Dalian, we notice the snow. We already know it's -4 here.
And when we don't see Autumn at the arrivals gate, we suspect that "Autumn no go in snow." Sure enough, Shannon's phone rings and that's what she tells us. Autumn no go.
Take a taxi, she tells us and call her to give him the address and directions. So we get an airport taxi.
The roads aren't plowed. Shannon told us they don't have snowplows in Dalian as it only snows three days a year.
Drivers seem to be moving a little more cautiously, though one has pulled his car into the left lane in a u-turn maneuver and we see a five car pileup at an intersection in Kaifaqu.
As we open the apartment door, Ollie is there to greet us. We've missed Ollie, and he gets five shower drinks in the next ten minutes.
We watch Mad Max. This put Mel Gibson in the spotlight?
There's a lot of pointless violence; I cuddle Ollie.
We have time to visit only one more place in Beijing and we've chosen the Yonghe Gong, or Lama Temple.
It's easy to find; the subway stop bears the name. Soon we're walking down a neighborhood street, so different than the area around Ti'anan Men Square. Restaurants and shops line the street, some of them selling incense for offerings at the temple. Down the street a large street fair is in progress.
This temple, built in 1694, originally housed court eunuchs. Later it became home for a prince destined to become emperor. When he moved to the Forbidden City, half the residence was converted to a monastery and temple and became the home of the Yellow Hat Sect of Buddhism.
Five halls separated by courtyards make up the temple. The halls house statues and paintings. The statues range from slightly larger than life-size to immense. One of the buildings houses a 20-foot statue of the first Dalai Lama.
The statue of the future Buddha (as opposed to the past Buddha and the present Buddha) in the last hall is 60 feet high and was carved from a single piece of white sandalwood. This is the temple's most prized possession. It's very impressive.
This is an active temple, with real monks. It's a showplace for the government to display its tolerance for religion, and the monks and Buddhism represented here are state-approved. The sign on the right just as you enter the complex states that the government spends large sums of money for the upkeep of Yonghe Gong.
There's a separate governing body for Catholics and Protestants, too. Catholic bishops here, for instance, are appointed not by the Vatican, but by the body which oversees Catholicism in China.
The large crowds and no place for quiet meditation of any kind does little to deter worshippers from praying, performing prostrations and making offerings of food and incense. No one is reticent to pray in public. Jostled by dozens of people, people put their hands together and bow, silently offering prayers.
As we are about to enter the third hall, a young woman and a boy of about twelve approach us. She tells us her little brother would like to practice his English with us.
I am frankly disappointed by this, using a child to work the scam. Although we've seen very small children begging in the streets with their mothers, trained to block your way no matter where you step (I picked one child up and moved him in Kaifaqu)it's still painful to see a child schooled in deception.
Bernie is more accommodating than I am. He walks and talks with this young woman and I move on ahead to what we've come to see. We have just a short time here, and I'm unwilling to spend it going through a charade. Somewhere along the line the little boy's "older brother" joins us.
That works to our advantage. Bernie cracks me up when he's the person who suggest we go somewhere for tea. Did he really say that?
The woman puts a little twist on things. She knows a famous Chinese restaurant where we could join all of her family and talk. (The way this works is that the laowai, or foreigner, accompanies one of these people to a teahouse or restaurant where they spend an afternoon, and the laowai is presented with an exorbitant bill, maybe $50 a person. With a family of say, ten, plus us, that could get steep quick.)
Bernie looks at his watch.
"What are you doing this afternoon?" she asks. We've gotten this far in this scam before.
"We're leaving Beijing this afternoon."
"What time is it?" I ask Bernie.
"It's a little past noon," he says.
"What do you think we should do?"
"I think we'd better head back to the hotel and get ready to go.
There. All done. And all absolutely honest, too. Who knows, maybe we've prevented another hapless laowai from being scammed just by occupying her time.
We're truly tired as we take a taxi to the airport. I'd stayed up late last night writing up my notes from the day.
At the airport we run into a Danish man who's married to a Chinese woman he met in Copenhagen whose family lives in Dalian, and an Italian woman whose husband has worked in China for several years and is now in Dalian.
As we descend in Dalian, we notice the snow. We already know it's -4 here.
And when we don't see Autumn at the arrivals gate, we suspect that "Autumn no go in snow." Sure enough, Shannon's phone rings and that's what she tells us. Autumn no go.
Take a taxi, she tells us and call her to give him the address and directions. So we get an airport taxi.
The roads aren't plowed. Shannon told us they don't have snowplows in Dalian as it only snows three days a year.
Drivers seem to be moving a little more cautiously, though one has pulled his car into the left lane in a u-turn maneuver and we see a five car pileup at an intersection in Kaifaqu.
As we open the apartment door, Ollie is there to greet us. We've missed Ollie, and he gets five shower drinks in the next ten minutes.
We watch Mad Max. This put Mel Gibson in the spotlight?
There's a lot of pointless violence; I cuddle Ollie.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The Forbidden City
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
I think the cold wore me out. I slept for ten hours.
I was half asleep when Bernie asked me earlier if I wanted to go down to breaksfast with him. "It would be wasted on me." I said, pulling the comforter up to my chin. I was asleep in half a minute.
We're taking the subway again today. The fare is about 60 cents. We like traveling like the locals. Again, it's a peek at the daily lives and routines of ordinary people. We've taken the New York and Washington subways, the Boston Tee, the London Underground, the Paris Metro, and now the Beijing subway.
We're on our way back to Tian'an Men Square. On board is a little girl in a pink satin coat, about four or five year old. She stretches to see me, first on one side of her mother's legs, then the other. I smile at her. She tugs at her mom's coat, points at me and says something, never taking her eyes off me. Then mom looks up, smiles and waves. I smile and wave back.
When we get off at the square, the little girl and her mother join what we assume is the rest of the family, a small crowd of about twenty people. Everyone turns to look at me.
It's easy to forget how different-looking we are. My hair seems to draw a lot of attention. Most women in urban China dye their hair, it seems, no matter what their age.
Because of my hair I am called old without any hint of a slight. But I've also been called beautiful by strangers here many times.
Tian'an Men Square is full of people. The line waiting to get into Mao's tomb is the longest I've ever seen.
Bernie wants to take my picture alongside one of the soldiers on the square. The soldier is far less than thrilled about the idea, but he lets it happen. He's tall, but he looks about 16, and the stern look the Communist soldiers here are supposed to have comes across as a scornful expression, which is exactly how he feels, I believe.
We've almost made it to the Gate of Heavenly Peace when we are met by two young people, a man and a woman who tell us that they are college students in Beijing. They speak very good English but tell us they'd like to practice their English by talking to us.
We are familiar with scams that begin this way, but we are polite and continue to talk with them as they walk with us. They tell us about a student art exhibit they'd like us to see-another piece of the scam falling into place. There's a gate into the Forbidden City just ahead, not the one where all the people are flocking, but a gate to the palace gardens, we learn later. At the entrance to a room set up with art work, there's sign "Student Art Exhibit."
You cannot believe how fast these people talk. The idea is to never give you enough time to think, so you just keep responding to their patter.
No self-respecting con artist in the U.S. would try this-no sublety, no letting the target think everything is his idea.
We are given hot water, which we accept. Only hot water and bottled water are safe in China, and still the bottled water is questionable and the boiled tap water may contain chemicals you wouldn't want to ingest.
The young man, very politely and almost shyly, asks if I'd like to see his work. He's done a group of four paintings representing the seasons. It's pleasant.
Meanwhile the young woman offers to write our names in Chinese letters as a gift. And although I say to Bernie in a not so hushed voice, "Don't do it," he accepts her offer.
While the ink dries we look at more paintings. I can be very noncommittal when in situations like this. Uh-huh and mmm... are my basic vocabulary tools.
When the ink is dry we prepare to leave. At this point we are offered guide services, but these two have realized we're not going for any of this.
Bernie, conscious all the time of what was going on, was politely interested but unswayed the whole time. I'm in awe of the way he handled it.
What we most dislike about these encounters is the time they take.
The walk to the ticket booth at the Forbidden City is a guantlet of first-class fast talkers offering guide services. We were approached by no less than half a dozen.
This is one time when Bernie's gruffness does not bother me at all.
Among the large crowd are toddlers with split pants, their little bottoms showing in the cold. This is China, and when a little one has to pee or poop, the mothers just hold them over whatever the moms deem appropriate (I've read of one mom using an ashtray) and the kids let go.
The Forbidden City is a surprise. It's much larger than we'd expected. Of course, it was a city, the Emperor's city, with all the necessary buildings and people attached to run a government and a huge household.
Built in 1420, it was from here the Chinese emperors ruled feudal China until 1911. I covers 178 acres, contains 9000 palaces and halls, and is surrounded by a 30-foot high, 3000 yard long wall and a moat.
It's the largest, best-preserved group of ancient wooden architecture in the world.
In 1964, Mao had plans to bulldoze the entrance to the Forbidden City for a highway, but the Cultural Revolution interrupted those plans, so the preservation of the ancient palaces was an accident arising out of one of the most turbulent and frightening times in the history of the Chinese people.
Scattered throughout the grounds are huge iron and bronze pots, some of the inlaid with gold. These pots were kept filled with water from November through Spring at all times and covered with blankets in winter to keep them from freezing. The water was needed to put out fires.
Over a million objects are on display in the palaces here, some dating back to 700 B.C. Most are items used by the palace household, including cooking pots and utensils, as well as writing instruments and brush pots, ceramics and lacquerware.
Excavation continues as China's economy continues to grow and money is available to support archaeological work.
We're surprised when Bernie looks at his watch - it's nearly 4 p.m. Crowds are reversing direction, heading for the gate. We tarry a few minutes more, then join them.
We've probably seen a quarter of a million people today.
Just before we cross the last long stretch to the front gate we see the soldiers who serve as guards here forming up, apparently preparing to march. Perhaps we'll see a changing of the guard. Hundreds of people are lined up along the barriers.
However, the inspections go on and on, as each rank reviews the troops, repeatedly adjusting uniforms, elbows, heels, checking for straight lines, etc. with no movement.
I've never seen a goose-stepping army before, so we wait as the crowd thins out. Gradually our patience, too, is worn thin, and we prepare to leave.
But the lone soldier guarding this area has stretched a tape across the broad walkway leading to the gate.
A Chinese family elder apparently asks why they can't exit through the front gate. The answer is less than satisfactory judging by the ensuing shouts. But our soldier is unmoved. He indicates everyone must exit across the yard to our right.
This seems purely arbitrary to me, and I am not good-humored about it. My suggestion is to step to the side of the walkway with its foot-high silly piece of tape, step over the movable barriers that keep people off where the grass would be growing if this weren't the dead of winter and Beijing weren't being eaten up by the Gobi desert, and walk to the gate.
Bernie points out that our soldier friend does not want us to do that. My inner rebel is close to emerging. As my family will attest, I think respect for authority is earned and is not imbued by putting on a uniform or holding a position.
What was I thinking? Well, so far no one has come up with a way to read my thoughts, and because I did not act on my urges we just herded ourselves out of there like mindless sheep.
My outlook does not improve when I learn we cannot turn to our left and get out on the same street we entered from, but must go out the back gate.
Kicked out of the Forbidden City.
Into the midst of several pedi-cab drivers who surround us in the usual fast-talking manner.
Bernie wants to ride. I do not, and could probably use the walk to cool off.
However, Bernie is not willing to pay the first price. Never pay the first price in China. Just don't. You're not a walking ATM, are you?
I stomp on as Bernie negotiates.
He finally gets me with "I wanted to take a pedi-cab ride anyway." OK. This is the closest I'll ever get to a rickshaw.
We're still inside the palace gates when our driver stops. He can't go any further; pedi-cabs are forbidden on the main street. As we walk on I mutter several unkind things about our soldier in particular, the Communist Chinese army in general, former leaders of the People's Republic and the like for awhile.
I'm much calmer by the time we pass through the gates and the territory starts to look vaguely familiar and I'm ready to smile again by the time we reach the subway.
If I needed something to make me laugh, I find it as soon as we enter the hotel.
This is Shrove Tuesday, the night of the Great Pancake Race at the Hilton. It's the Beijing Hilton's answer to Mardi Gras.
The festivites are in full swing. We almost collide with two of the contestants carrying skillets with pancakes on their way to a tiny stage (the concierge desk) where they pull a hula hoop over their heads, spin it and try to keep it going while holding their skillets. The lobby has been transformed into an obstacle course. Several of the staff are wearing orange fright wigs.
We watch for a while, then try to make a quick stop at the gift shop where they've written the names of our grandchildren in Chinese. We came in to browse last night and were soon overwhelmed with the Chinese sales technique in such stores, which involves latching onto any item you show an interest in, telling you you'll get a special price and then acting as if no is just a bargaining ploy.
This kind of shopping takes a lot of energy, especially if you're a shopper like me, who wants to see everything before even thinking of buying. The upshot is, you just want to get out of there.
What kind of people don't understand that this doesn't work? But that's not true, of course.
Bernie explains that it's like the guy at the bar who tries to pick up a girl with some cheesy, lame line. Most of the time it doesn't work. But sometimes it does.
And in a country of 1.5 billion people, the law of averages works in your favor.
I think the cold wore me out. I slept for ten hours.
I was half asleep when Bernie asked me earlier if I wanted to go down to breaksfast with him. "It would be wasted on me." I said, pulling the comforter up to my chin. I was asleep in half a minute.
We're taking the subway again today. The fare is about 60 cents. We like traveling like the locals. Again, it's a peek at the daily lives and routines of ordinary people. We've taken the New York and Washington subways, the Boston Tee, the London Underground, the Paris Metro, and now the Beijing subway.
We're on our way back to Tian'an Men Square. On board is a little girl in a pink satin coat, about four or five year old. She stretches to see me, first on one side of her mother's legs, then the other. I smile at her. She tugs at her mom's coat, points at me and says something, never taking her eyes off me. Then mom looks up, smiles and waves. I smile and wave back.
When we get off at the square, the little girl and her mother join what we assume is the rest of the family, a small crowd of about twenty people. Everyone turns to look at me.
It's easy to forget how different-looking we are. My hair seems to draw a lot of attention. Most women in urban China dye their hair, it seems, no matter what their age.
Because of my hair I am called old without any hint of a slight. But I've also been called beautiful by strangers here many times.
Tian'an Men Square is full of people. The line waiting to get into Mao's tomb is the longest I've ever seen.
Bernie wants to take my picture alongside one of the soldiers on the square. The soldier is far less than thrilled about the idea, but he lets it happen. He's tall, but he looks about 16, and the stern look the Communist soldiers here are supposed to have comes across as a scornful expression, which is exactly how he feels, I believe.
We've almost made it to the Gate of Heavenly Peace when we are met by two young people, a man and a woman who tell us that they are college students in Beijing. They speak very good English but tell us they'd like to practice their English by talking to us.
We are familiar with scams that begin this way, but we are polite and continue to talk with them as they walk with us. They tell us about a student art exhibit they'd like us to see-another piece of the scam falling into place. There's a gate into the Forbidden City just ahead, not the one where all the people are flocking, but a gate to the palace gardens, we learn later. At the entrance to a room set up with art work, there's sign "Student Art Exhibit."
You cannot believe how fast these people talk. The idea is to never give you enough time to think, so you just keep responding to their patter.
No self-respecting con artist in the U.S. would try this-no sublety, no letting the target think everything is his idea.
We are given hot water, which we accept. Only hot water and bottled water are safe in China, and still the bottled water is questionable and the boiled tap water may contain chemicals you wouldn't want to ingest.
The young man, very politely and almost shyly, asks if I'd like to see his work. He's done a group of four paintings representing the seasons. It's pleasant.
Meanwhile the young woman offers to write our names in Chinese letters as a gift. And although I say to Bernie in a not so hushed voice, "Don't do it," he accepts her offer.
While the ink dries we look at more paintings. I can be very noncommittal when in situations like this. Uh-huh and mmm... are my basic vocabulary tools.
When the ink is dry we prepare to leave. At this point we are offered guide services, but these two have realized we're not going for any of this.
Bernie, conscious all the time of what was going on, was politely interested but unswayed the whole time. I'm in awe of the way he handled it.
What we most dislike about these encounters is the time they take.
The walk to the ticket booth at the Forbidden City is a guantlet of first-class fast talkers offering guide services. We were approached by no less than half a dozen.
This is one time when Bernie's gruffness does not bother me at all.
Among the large crowd are toddlers with split pants, their little bottoms showing in the cold. This is China, and when a little one has to pee or poop, the mothers just hold them over whatever the moms deem appropriate (I've read of one mom using an ashtray) and the kids let go.
The Forbidden City is a surprise. It's much larger than we'd expected. Of course, it was a city, the Emperor's city, with all the necessary buildings and people attached to run a government and a huge household.
Built in 1420, it was from here the Chinese emperors ruled feudal China until 1911. I covers 178 acres, contains 9000 palaces and halls, and is surrounded by a 30-foot high, 3000 yard long wall and a moat.
It's the largest, best-preserved group of ancient wooden architecture in the world.
In 1964, Mao had plans to bulldoze the entrance to the Forbidden City for a highway, but the Cultural Revolution interrupted those plans, so the preservation of the ancient palaces was an accident arising out of one of the most turbulent and frightening times in the history of the Chinese people.
Scattered throughout the grounds are huge iron and bronze pots, some of the inlaid with gold. These pots were kept filled with water from November through Spring at all times and covered with blankets in winter to keep them from freezing. The water was needed to put out fires.
Over a million objects are on display in the palaces here, some dating back to 700 B.C. Most are items used by the palace household, including cooking pots and utensils, as well as writing instruments and brush pots, ceramics and lacquerware.
Excavation continues as China's economy continues to grow and money is available to support archaeological work.
We're surprised when Bernie looks at his watch - it's nearly 4 p.m. Crowds are reversing direction, heading for the gate. We tarry a few minutes more, then join them.
We've probably seen a quarter of a million people today.
Just before we cross the last long stretch to the front gate we see the soldiers who serve as guards here forming up, apparently preparing to march. Perhaps we'll see a changing of the guard. Hundreds of people are lined up along the barriers.
However, the inspections go on and on, as each rank reviews the troops, repeatedly adjusting uniforms, elbows, heels, checking for straight lines, etc. with no movement.
I've never seen a goose-stepping army before, so we wait as the crowd thins out. Gradually our patience, too, is worn thin, and we prepare to leave.
But the lone soldier guarding this area has stretched a tape across the broad walkway leading to the gate.
A Chinese family elder apparently asks why they can't exit through the front gate. The answer is less than satisfactory judging by the ensuing shouts. But our soldier is unmoved. He indicates everyone must exit across the yard to our right.
This seems purely arbitrary to me, and I am not good-humored about it. My suggestion is to step to the side of the walkway with its foot-high silly piece of tape, step over the movable barriers that keep people off where the grass would be growing if this weren't the dead of winter and Beijing weren't being eaten up by the Gobi desert, and walk to the gate.
Bernie points out that our soldier friend does not want us to do that. My inner rebel is close to emerging. As my family will attest, I think respect for authority is earned and is not imbued by putting on a uniform or holding a position.
What was I thinking? Well, so far no one has come up with a way to read my thoughts, and because I did not act on my urges we just herded ourselves out of there like mindless sheep.
My outlook does not improve when I learn we cannot turn to our left and get out on the same street we entered from, but must go out the back gate.
Kicked out of the Forbidden City.
Into the midst of several pedi-cab drivers who surround us in the usual fast-talking manner.
Bernie wants to ride. I do not, and could probably use the walk to cool off.
However, Bernie is not willing to pay the first price. Never pay the first price in China. Just don't. You're not a walking ATM, are you?
I stomp on as Bernie negotiates.
He finally gets me with "I wanted to take a pedi-cab ride anyway." OK. This is the closest I'll ever get to a rickshaw.
We're still inside the palace gates when our driver stops. He can't go any further; pedi-cabs are forbidden on the main street. As we walk on I mutter several unkind things about our soldier in particular, the Communist Chinese army in general, former leaders of the People's Republic and the like for awhile.
I'm much calmer by the time we pass through the gates and the territory starts to look vaguely familiar and I'm ready to smile again by the time we reach the subway.
If I needed something to make me laugh, I find it as soon as we enter the hotel.
This is Shrove Tuesday, the night of the Great Pancake Race at the Hilton. It's the Beijing Hilton's answer to Mardi Gras.
The festivites are in full swing. We almost collide with two of the contestants carrying skillets with pancakes on their way to a tiny stage (the concierge desk) where they pull a hula hoop over their heads, spin it and try to keep it going while holding their skillets. The lobby has been transformed into an obstacle course. Several of the staff are wearing orange fright wigs.
We watch for a while, then try to make a quick stop at the gift shop where they've written the names of our grandchildren in Chinese. We came in to browse last night and were soon overwhelmed with the Chinese sales technique in such stores, which involves latching onto any item you show an interest in, telling you you'll get a special price and then acting as if no is just a bargaining ploy.
This kind of shopping takes a lot of energy, especially if you're a shopper like me, who wants to see everything before even thinking of buying. The upshot is, you just want to get out of there.
What kind of people don't understand that this doesn't work? But that's not true, of course.
Bernie explains that it's like the guy at the bar who tries to pick up a girl with some cheesy, lame line. Most of the time it doesn't work. But sometimes it does.
And in a country of 1.5 billion people, the law of averages works in your favor.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Beijing
Monday, February 15, 2010
I'm sitting at the gate waiting to board out flight to Beijing. I've just read, in the book I selected from Damon and Shannon's library (Lost On Planet China by Maarten Troost, author of Sex Among the Cannibals), that there is a shortage of pilots in China and therefore many pilots are young, and thus inexperienced.
Funny how fatalistic you become after even a short time in China. Polluted air, polluted water, maniacial drivers-all are greeted with a mental shrug and an "Oh, well, I'm here now and I can't do anything about it."
So I don't even peek into the cockpit as we board.
Just as we are about to land in Beijing Bernie calls my attention to something he sees through the window on the other side of the plane. I hold my place with my index finger. When I look back at my book I see the young man sitting beside me looking at the page.
The author is relating an incident that happened to him somewhere in China when he was mistaken for a German and a psychotic man began hitting him repeatedly. He's giving his reaction.
"WTF" (spelled out of course) is what I'm pointing to on the page.
I look at the page, then up at the face of my seatmate.
Yeah, he can read English.
Our hotel is nice, very nice. The concierge informs us that it's too late in the day to go to the Forbidden City, but that we might want to visit the Olympic Green, where the games were held two years ago.
We decide to try the subway. Signs are in English as well as Chinese, and on the trains a lighted display shows where the train is now, what stops it's already made and the rest of the stops on the line.
Olympic Green is crowded with tourists, 99.5% of them Chinese. This is the Spring Festival holiday week, one of the few workers have off, and there lots of families here.
Coming out of the subway we see a couple taking pictures of one another, so Bernie volunteers to take a picture of the two of them. Then they take a picture of us. They're funny, making faces and having a good time.
We run across them several times while we're at the Olympic site. We take more pictures, at the famous stadium and in front of a large tower.
We want to squeeze in a look at Tian'an Men Square at night, so we take the subway there. This is the world's largest square (99 acres), where 300,000 people can stand. The Forbidden City, the Great Hall of the People, and the museums of Chinese History and Chinese Revolution border the square. The Monument to the People's Heroes stands in the center of the square. Chairman Mao's portrait looks out across the square from his mausoleum.
It's dark now, and cold. Lights decorate the trees. The impressive glass-dome Performing Arts Center stands in the middle of an artificial lake.
But we're not thinking of the architecture or the museums. We, like most of the world, think something else entirely as we stand in front of the steps and look at the brightly lit Monument to the People's Heroes.
I'm sitting at the gate waiting to board out flight to Beijing. I've just read, in the book I selected from Damon and Shannon's library (Lost On Planet China by Maarten Troost, author of Sex Among the Cannibals), that there is a shortage of pilots in China and therefore many pilots are young, and thus inexperienced.
Funny how fatalistic you become after even a short time in China. Polluted air, polluted water, maniacial drivers-all are greeted with a mental shrug and an "Oh, well, I'm here now and I can't do anything about it."
So I don't even peek into the cockpit as we board.
Just as we are about to land in Beijing Bernie calls my attention to something he sees through the window on the other side of the plane. I hold my place with my index finger. When I look back at my book I see the young man sitting beside me looking at the page.
The author is relating an incident that happened to him somewhere in China when he was mistaken for a German and a psychotic man began hitting him repeatedly. He's giving his reaction.
"WTF" (spelled out of course) is what I'm pointing to on the page.
I look at the page, then up at the face of my seatmate.
Yeah, he can read English.
Our hotel is nice, very nice. The concierge informs us that it's too late in the day to go to the Forbidden City, but that we might want to visit the Olympic Green, where the games were held two years ago.
We decide to try the subway. Signs are in English as well as Chinese, and on the trains a lighted display shows where the train is now, what stops it's already made and the rest of the stops on the line.
Olympic Green is crowded with tourists, 99.5% of them Chinese. This is the Spring Festival holiday week, one of the few workers have off, and there lots of families here.
Coming out of the subway we see a couple taking pictures of one another, so Bernie volunteers to take a picture of the two of them. Then they take a picture of us. They're funny, making faces and having a good time.
We run across them several times while we're at the Olympic site. We take more pictures, at the famous stadium and in front of a large tower.
We want to squeeze in a look at Tian'an Men Square at night, so we take the subway there. This is the world's largest square (99 acres), where 300,000 people can stand. The Forbidden City, the Great Hall of the People, and the museums of Chinese History and Chinese Revolution border the square. The Monument to the People's Heroes stands in the center of the square. Chairman Mao's portrait looks out across the square from his mausoleum.
It's dark now, and cold. Lights decorate the trees. The impressive glass-dome Performing Arts Center stands in the middle of an artificial lake.
But we're not thinking of the architecture or the museums. We, like most of the world, think something else entirely as we stand in front of the steps and look at the brightly lit Monument to the People's Heroes.
A Bloggy Valentine
Sunday, January 14, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day.
Ten years ago today we were in London. I remember because I kept wanting Bernie to take me for a romantic dinner that night and we ended up eating supermarket food in our room at the bed and breakfast on Gower Street.
Today I have brought my blog up to date and published it. There's a big slug of entries all lumped together, but they're out there.
We're packing for Beijing. Autumn will pick us up at 8:00 a.m.
I've been at the computer all day.
Now we're going to call Eddie and order some pizza.
And, yeah, we're going to watch Lost.
Hope your Valentine's Day is great. Be good to one another.
P.S. Photos to accompany entries will be posted when we get back from Beijing.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Ten years ago today we were in London. I remember because I kept wanting Bernie to take me for a romantic dinner that night and we ended up eating supermarket food in our room at the bed and breakfast on Gower Street.
Today I have brought my blog up to date and published it. There's a big slug of entries all lumped together, but they're out there.
We're packing for Beijing. Autumn will pick us up at 8:00 a.m.
I've been at the computer all day.
Now we're going to call Eddie and order some pizza.
And, yeah, we're going to watch Lost.
Hope your Valentine's Day is great. Be good to one another.
P.S. Photos to accompany entries will be posted when we get back from Beijing.
New Year’s Eve
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Tomorrow the Year of the Tiger begins. Today is New Year’s Eve in China, the biggest holiday of the Chinese calendar.
The fireworks begin early in the day, the reverberations setting off car alarms in the parking lot.
I am making brownies to take to the Zhous. We also have the Jack Daniels and a large box of very good chocolates. We’ve bought gold paper and red gift bags because we’ve read that’s appropriate for New Year.
Yesterday I purchased an inexpensive red and gold jacket so I’d look festive for tonight.
At 3:40 they pick us up. This time Mr. Zhou is driving, a large Toyota SUV. His brother-in-law is with him and Gail. We’re going to visit some construction sites and Zhou’s offices to set off firecrackers to scare away last year’s ghosts. This is a Chinese tradition, and as we move through Kaifaqu we can see it’s going on everywhere.
Gail has said Zhou is a very successful businessman and our journey today tells us that he is indeed. Our first stop is a huge hole in the ground hundreds of feet wide, the site of a new building which Zhou is overseeing. At this and every stop along the way today Zhou’s associates (read subordinates) meet him at the site and place and set off the fireworks.
In addition to two other construction sites, we stop at his temporary office in Kaifaqu and later at his very impressive permanent office in Dalian. Ghosts are expelled at each stop.
Mr. Zhou regards his work as exciting; he works long hours and is absorbed in it. Gail, not so much.
We are impressed and understand how exciting it must be to be a part of China’s booming economy today.
Zhou also has high hopes for his country; he can see the day, he says, when China will be rid of pollution and the city’s air will be clean again. Zhou also has a high regard for building in the U.S. He says buildings there are much better, more beautiful. However, this might be typical Chinese modesty, claiming that other’s things are better.
Once we’ve finished ghost-busting we drive to the apartment complex where Gail and Zhou live, and Zhou’s mother does as well. Her home is where we’re eating dinner tonight. The apartment is small, Gail warns. Their own apartment, on the other side of the complex, is three times as large.
The apartment is small, but it’s clean and bright and very pleasant. Zhou’s mother suffers from dementia, and Gail’s sister-in-law cares for her. Tonight, however, she will be gone. A cousin, a young man, has cooked the food, and it’s beautifully presented.
Sheri’s cousin, just a year older, is here and she talks to us in very good English, though she apologizes for not speaking English well. She wants a photo with me. We take several photos, including one of me with Zhou’s mother.
Dinner is a banquet. On the coffee table there is fruit (delicious white peaches and pears), as well as candy and nuts.
Gail puts the finishing touches on the meal when the rest of the family leaves. It will be just Zhou’s mother, us and the Zhous for dinner. Gail puts dumplings in water to cook for a few minutes. There must be fifty of them and she has another batch, filled with something else, after this one’s finished.
It’s impossible to eat everything at a Chinese meal. We have crabs, clams, shrimp, fish, two kinds of dumplings, rice, a dish of pork fat with seasonings, and peaches.
We are indeed honored guests. Zhou presents the wine (really whiskey). It is Moutai, China’s official state liquor, served at state dinners and at Chinese embassies everywhere in the world.
I’m a heretic-it’s colorless, very powerful, and hot to my taste. But I’m hardly a connoisseur.
Tonight is a very big night, with the burning of paper for family members who have died (money in the afterlife). At midnight, every family will set off fireworks. Zhou has brought three large boxes to his mother’s to set them off. She enjoys them.
The Zhous drive us home after dinner. They cannot be gone long since Zhou’s mother cannot be left alone.
On the way back it’s obvious some people are getting a head start. Firecrackers are going off everywhere and we pass several fireworks displays that rival that of most small cities in the U.S. on July 4th.
At the apartment the celebration is gearing up. We see three of the big displays, then there are three on each side of the apartment. We keep moving back and forth between the kitchen, the balcony and the bedroom, trying to see them all at once.
This goes on for another three hours, increasing in intensity and frequency. We call Sarah to let her hear it, and try to call Mary but get her recording. Bernie takes what must amount to an hour of movies.
It’s spectacular and it’s going on all over China. I keep wondering what China must look like now from a satellite.
Gail told us not to go to bed before midnight because we’d be awakened by the noise. She said it would sound like a war. It does.
Amazing. We’re glad we’re here for New Year’s Eve.
Tomorrow the Year of the Tiger begins. Today is New Year’s Eve in China, the biggest holiday of the Chinese calendar.
The fireworks begin early in the day, the reverberations setting off car alarms in the parking lot.
I am making brownies to take to the Zhous. We also have the Jack Daniels and a large box of very good chocolates. We’ve bought gold paper and red gift bags because we’ve read that’s appropriate for New Year.
Yesterday I purchased an inexpensive red and gold jacket so I’d look festive for tonight.
At 3:40 they pick us up. This time Mr. Zhou is driving, a large Toyota SUV. His brother-in-law is with him and Gail. We’re going to visit some construction sites and Zhou’s offices to set off firecrackers to scare away last year’s ghosts. This is a Chinese tradition, and as we move through Kaifaqu we can see it’s going on everywhere.
Gail has said Zhou is a very successful businessman and our journey today tells us that he is indeed. Our first stop is a huge hole in the ground hundreds of feet wide, the site of a new building which Zhou is overseeing. At this and every stop along the way today Zhou’s associates (read subordinates) meet him at the site and place and set off the fireworks.
In addition to two other construction sites, we stop at his temporary office in Kaifaqu and later at his very impressive permanent office in Dalian. Ghosts are expelled at each stop.
Mr. Zhou regards his work as exciting; he works long hours and is absorbed in it. Gail, not so much.
We are impressed and understand how exciting it must be to be a part of China’s booming economy today.
Zhou also has high hopes for his country; he can see the day, he says, when China will be rid of pollution and the city’s air will be clean again. Zhou also has a high regard for building in the U.S. He says buildings there are much better, more beautiful. However, this might be typical Chinese modesty, claiming that other’s things are better.
Once we’ve finished ghost-busting we drive to the apartment complex where Gail and Zhou live, and Zhou’s mother does as well. Her home is where we’re eating dinner tonight. The apartment is small, Gail warns. Their own apartment, on the other side of the complex, is three times as large.
The apartment is small, but it’s clean and bright and very pleasant. Zhou’s mother suffers from dementia, and Gail’s sister-in-law cares for her. Tonight, however, she will be gone. A cousin, a young man, has cooked the food, and it’s beautifully presented.
Sheri’s cousin, just a year older, is here and she talks to us in very good English, though she apologizes for not speaking English well. She wants a photo with me. We take several photos, including one of me with Zhou’s mother.
Dinner is a banquet. On the coffee table there is fruit (delicious white peaches and pears), as well as candy and nuts.
Gail puts the finishing touches on the meal when the rest of the family leaves. It will be just Zhou’s mother, us and the Zhous for dinner. Gail puts dumplings in water to cook for a few minutes. There must be fifty of them and she has another batch, filled with something else, after this one’s finished.
It’s impossible to eat everything at a Chinese meal. We have crabs, clams, shrimp, fish, two kinds of dumplings, rice, a dish of pork fat with seasonings, and peaches.
We are indeed honored guests. Zhou presents the wine (really whiskey). It is Moutai, China’s official state liquor, served at state dinners and at Chinese embassies everywhere in the world.
I’m a heretic-it’s colorless, very powerful, and hot to my taste. But I’m hardly a connoisseur.
Tonight is a very big night, with the burning of paper for family members who have died (money in the afterlife). At midnight, every family will set off fireworks. Zhou has brought three large boxes to his mother’s to set them off. She enjoys them.
The Zhous drive us home after dinner. They cannot be gone long since Zhou’s mother cannot be left alone.
On the way back it’s obvious some people are getting a head start. Firecrackers are going off everywhere and we pass several fireworks displays that rival that of most small cities in the U.S. on July 4th.
At the apartment the celebration is gearing up. We see three of the big displays, then there are three on each side of the apartment. We keep moving back and forth between the kitchen, the balcony and the bedroom, trying to see them all at once.
This goes on for another three hours, increasing in intensity and frequency. We call Sarah to let her hear it, and try to call Mary but get her recording. Bernie takes what must amount to an hour of movies.
It’s spectacular and it’s going on all over China. I keep wondering what China must look like now from a satellite.
Gail told us not to go to bed before midnight because we’d be awakened by the noise. She said it would sound like a war. It does.
Amazing. We’re glad we’re here for New Year’s Eve.
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