It's taken me several months to reach the point where I can adequately reflect on the maelstrom that is Shanghai traffic. As it, much more than children or colleagues, is likely to make my blood boil on any given day, I've spent a considerable amount of time thinking about it. I've also found that most expats have pondered it extensively, perhaps as they recognize it as the most likely source of their early demise. I have come to see that there are, in fact, four distinct and progressive schools of thought about why Shanghai drivers are so willing to risk life and limb, ---theirs, their family, and mine--- for the sake of a moment or two in traffic.
GTL Theory
Get The Laowei theory stems from your initial reaction to almost being run down by a car: "Holy !@#% that guy was going to kill me!" This generally happens within an hour or two of arriving in Shanghai. Naturally, as you're many thousands of miles away from most people with any real cause to be so angry, you assume that it must be because you're foreign. That guy was out to get to you because you're here, messing up the aesthetics of his country and making vastly more money than he is, and he hates you for it. Or maybe he thinks he can run you over and you won't complain, because you don't speak Chinese. Or perhaps he just couldn't see your white skin in the light.
This theory only lasts a day or two. Quickly, you realize that the drivers will just as easily run their own grandmother down as your self-centered foreignness. And you feel bad for thinking it was all about race.
PRM Theory
Usually, you're pushed into Poor Role Model theory when you ask about why the police drive around with their lights on. The inevitable answer is, "So they don't get hit in the traffic." Then it dawns on you, ---no one here actually does know how to drive! If they can't avoid hitting the police without extra-special precautions, what possible safety have you?
Somebody quickly reminds you that, a generation ago, there were very few drivers in China. The vast majority of the population was, and is, on bicycle, scooter or motorbike. This means that a lot of the newly rich did not grow up watching their parents obey the traffic laws, respect pedestrians, or even make a proper left turn. They simply have no idea how it's done. The closest thing most people have to driving role models are taxi cab drivers, ---people with a tremendous economic incentive to drive as close to the edge as possible.
RLGL Theory
Red Light – Green Light theory takes over after several months of observation. Perhaps you're walking to Carrefour, as I was, and in the process of crossing the street with a crowd of about three dozen, as cars begin making a left turn in front of you. You keep walking, they keep turning, ever sharper as you walk forward. Rather than turn around or behind the group of pedestrians, they continue turning left into the wrong side of the street! A glance behind shows that, yes, they are turning left into on-coming traffic and then making an abrupt u-turn around the median. All this, to avoid driving ten feet to make their left behind you, or waiting ten seconds until you finish crossing the street.
No one, you realize, could possibly think that this sort of driving is an earnest mistake. It's an intentional, desperate effort to get ahead. Ahead of you. Ahead of anyone. China's recent history is littered with power changes. In just the last hundred years, it's gone from Mandate of Heaven to Good Republic to Corrupt Republic to Occupation to Workers Unite! to Workers Unite, Really! to Getting Rich is Glorious! Odds are, the parents of anyone driving, and possibly the drivers themselves, experienced the Cultural Revolution first hand. They know the stakes; the potential to lose everything is very real to them. So, right now, in the middle of a left turn, that driver also knows that it's their chance to get to where they're going, make some money and enjoy the middle class until the rules are changed again. And you're standing in their way? Fool.
CASS Theory
RLGL Theory is persuasive, until you realize that the people in the cars are far too smart to think that running you over will save time and far too proud of the vehicle to let your blood stain their hood. So you're pressed to come up with something new and more potent, Car As Status Symbol Theory is just that.
In the States, whether or not you drive is a poor indicator of your station in life. Outside of the fantastically wealthy and abysmally poor, both of which ironically tend to be driven, most people across the social status spectrum drive. The moderately rich might drive nicer, newer, cleaner cars than the moderately poor, but they all still drive.
Not so in China. There's no need to remind anyone here that driving is a privilege, not a right.
In China, at least in Shanghai, your mode of transport is a major display of your status. Old people, little children, and the dregs who can't afford a bicycle, walk. Everybody else rides a bike or takes a bus or the subway, or some combination. From a bike, the up-and-coming can advance to an electric bike. From there, an electric scooter or perhaps, if business is swell, a gas-powered scooter, is a clear improvement. Penultimately, one moves about in a taxi. A single commute-length taxi ride costs between a twentieth and a fifth of a cheap bike, depending on commute and bike, but either away one is clearly asserting a vastly higher station than those rolling about in the elements. Finally, the high achiever can reach the car. A woman driving to work in a car, has set herself above five lesser levels of society. Everyone who sees her on her daily journey should know: She has arrived. So why brake for these lesser cretins? And the sentiment continues on back down. Motor scooters driving on the sidewalk earnestly honk in the expectation that the electric bikes will get out of their way. The electric bikes have no qualms about cutting in front of their human-powered cousins. Each mode of transport is owed the deference their owner has paid for.
And everyone, truly everyone, expects that you'll get out of their way, you silly walking fool. Get it together! Who do you think you are? Where do you think you are? These people aren't driving this way because they want to kill you, don't know better or feel like they must. They're driving this way because they can. They've earned it and you haven't.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Seeing the Sights in Suzhou and Xi'an
Travel, at its best, is the chance to experience something new.
My wife and I thoroughly realized this when, after our recent weekend trips to Suzhou and Xi’an, we found ourselves not thinking back to the magnificent gardens or Terracotta Army these cities are known for, but our more simple experiences. In Suzhou, we had a boat ride and long walk along ancient canals and we spent hours circumnavigating the city walls of Xi’an on bike. A month later, we still find ourselves thinking and talking about these views of the cities ---the ones we’d never expected to see--- and not the grand sights that originally led us there.
Suzhou’s gardens are indisputably among the best in China, ranging from intricate and intimate to majestic and grand, each resplendent with rockeries and greens, bonsai and bamboo, and pavilions full of dark wood and rich with reds, greens and grays. On top of this we visited amid Spring’s blooming flowers and rare clear days. Xi’an’s necropolis for China’s first emperor is as tremendous as you might imagine anything that can be called a “city of the dead” to be. Legions of carefully crafted soldiers, buried in their labyrinths a quarter millennia before the birth of Christ. So how could these fail to impress?
Suzhou’s canals, by contrast to the gardens, were almost simple and unadorned. Green willow trees bowed over and dropped thin vines into the water, while the occasional plum or Asian maples added color. There were a few pavilions and benches along the walls, in quiet, natural browns. Xi’an’s city walls were hardly a sight to themselves, but more so provided the chance to circle the city, looking down on parks big and small, enormous intersections and winding lanes, rows of neo-historic buildings. Can any of this compare to the splendor of the premier sights of the cities?
No, ---but that’s the point.
These secondary sights were, my wife and I finally understood, the parts of the trip that we had not really anticipated and so were enchantingly unimagined. They were parts of the cities that we had not seen featured in scores of pictures, posters and paintings. Sure, they had their place on the map and in the guidebook, but they still retained a sense of surprise and novelty for us.
By contrast, we had seen so many images, replicas and even videos of the Terracotta warriors that, once we had pushed our way through the crowds and laid in wait for a premium middle spot on the balcony overlooking them, we still found our view inferior to what the professionals had already achieved. Certainly, there is a spectacular quality to the army that can only be appreciated in person, but in terms of a rich and vivid appreciation of detail, one is far better off with National Geographic.
I suspect this will be a challenge for travelers of this generation, those growing up with mega-screens showing HD video of “Planet Earth.” They will be saturated with stunning images of everywhere, each taken in its best seasons, on its best days, and only showing its best angles. Always, of course, without the crowds, hawkers or mosquitoes. How can their own travels compare?
Comparison is not the point.
Culturally, we always understood this. We go to foreign countries because they are fascinatingly different than our own. We go to see, eat, hear and smell something we cannot find at home. An experience T.V. or Imax cannot provide. Now we realize that the same must be for the sights we seek, recognizing that we can and will get our best views of the major and magnificent at home.
In the future, I think we’ll give a nod to appreciating the scale and significance of the central sights in a city, but move on, finding a sight that is as unknown to our eyes as the food, scent or sound of a new place. Maybe this means walking the little lanes, taking a bus instead of the subway, or going to a park that no one has recommended. I see myself using the guidebook less and just looking at a map a bit more, searching for the sight to which I respond, “Oh, I didn’t know that was here!”
My wife and I thoroughly realized this when, after our recent weekend trips to Suzhou and Xi’an, we found ourselves not thinking back to the magnificent gardens or Terracotta Army these cities are known for, but our more simple experiences. In Suzhou, we had a boat ride and long walk along ancient canals and we spent hours circumnavigating the city walls of Xi’an on bike. A month later, we still find ourselves thinking and talking about these views of the cities ---the ones we’d never expected to see--- and not the grand sights that originally led us there.
Suzhou’s gardens are indisputably among the best in China, ranging from intricate and intimate to majestic and grand, each resplendent with rockeries and greens, bonsai and bamboo, and pavilions full of dark wood and rich with reds, greens and grays. On top of this we visited amid Spring’s blooming flowers and rare clear days. Xi’an’s necropolis for China’s first emperor is as tremendous as you might imagine anything that can be called a “city of the dead” to be. Legions of carefully crafted soldiers, buried in their labyrinths a quarter millennia before the birth of Christ. So how could these fail to impress?
Suzhou’s canals, by contrast to the gardens, were almost simple and unadorned. Green willow trees bowed over and dropped thin vines into the water, while the occasional plum or Asian maples added color. There were a few pavilions and benches along the walls, in quiet, natural browns. Xi’an’s city walls were hardly a sight to themselves, but more so provided the chance to circle the city, looking down on parks big and small, enormous intersections and winding lanes, rows of neo-historic buildings. Can any of this compare to the splendor of the premier sights of the cities?
No, ---but that’s the point.
These secondary sights were, my wife and I finally understood, the parts of the trip that we had not really anticipated and so were enchantingly unimagined. They were parts of the cities that we had not seen featured in scores of pictures, posters and paintings. Sure, they had their place on the map and in the guidebook, but they still retained a sense of surprise and novelty for us.
By contrast, we had seen so many images, replicas and even videos of the Terracotta warriors that, once we had pushed our way through the crowds and laid in wait for a premium middle spot on the balcony overlooking them, we still found our view inferior to what the professionals had already achieved. Certainly, there is a spectacular quality to the army that can only be appreciated in person, but in terms of a rich and vivid appreciation of detail, one is far better off with National Geographic.
I suspect this will be a challenge for travelers of this generation, those growing up with mega-screens showing HD video of “Planet Earth.” They will be saturated with stunning images of everywhere, each taken in its best seasons, on its best days, and only showing its best angles. Always, of course, without the crowds, hawkers or mosquitoes. How can their own travels compare?
Comparison is not the point.
Culturally, we always understood this. We go to foreign countries because they are fascinatingly different than our own. We go to see, eat, hear and smell something we cannot find at home. An experience T.V. or Imax cannot provide. Now we realize that the same must be for the sights we seek, recognizing that we can and will get our best views of the major and magnificent at home.
In the future, I think we’ll give a nod to appreciating the scale and significance of the central sights in a city, but move on, finding a sight that is as unknown to our eyes as the food, scent or sound of a new place. Maybe this means walking the little lanes, taking a bus instead of the subway, or going to a park that no one has recommended. I see myself using the guidebook less and just looking at a map a bit more, searching for the sight to which I respond, “Oh, I didn’t know that was here!”
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Gross Simplifications of Terrifically Complex Issues
Gross simplifications of terrifically complex issues are best left to cable news commentators, but sometimes they're a lot of fun to join in...
I read Kitchen Table Math, the Sequel because it's informative to see how many intelligent, focused and well-read parents can totally miss the point. But sometimes they drive me crazy:
Their Post:
Independent George boils it down
Is it me, or can the entire philosophy of K-6 education be summarized as:
1. It's not our fault.
2. It's not our problem.
3. We're underfunded.
I'm thinking we should make this our default kitchen table math post on days when everyone's too busy to write something new.
Then there's this:
If kids don't learn math, it's because they're not capable of learning it. And if they enter high school five years behind grade level, then it's up to the parents and the high schools to catch them up. Either way, they need more money so that they can facilitate kids learning on their own.
My Reply:
Catherine - How do you deal with blogs that you recognize in your blogroll, like Dy/Dan and Teaching in the 408 (may it RIP), that specifically and powerfully argue against this idea? Do you think it aids those educators engaged in tackling the excuse-making attitudes of some of our colleagues when you apply this label so generally? Do you think it inspires our nation's talented youth to look to or stay in the classroom for their career when this is the public perception they meet?
The more you blame educators, whether positioned in the classroom or district office, for the failing education system, the more you must recognize that we are the solution. Only a corps of great teachers, inspired to offer their best, can provide the U.S. with the sort of public education system you all dream of on this blog. Instead of a default to untempered criticism, add an ounce of contribution. What are you doing to make that happen?
Here's my "entire philosophy for K-6 education."
1. Fault is for the politicians and academics. I worry and wonder about 5th graders who can't read.
2. It's our problem, whether or not we're equipped, prepared or intended to solve it. The best of us accept that and get to work.
3. We're undermanned, but thus underfunded because it takes money to get people. If you know how to get us experts and professionals on the cheap, make *that* your default post.
---
So go ahead, give in to temptation to boil it all down to tasteless nothingness. What would your three be?
I read Kitchen Table Math, the Sequel because it's informative to see how many intelligent, focused and well-read parents can totally miss the point. But sometimes they drive me crazy:
Their Post:
Independent George boils it down
Is it me, or can the entire philosophy of K-6 education be summarized as:
1. It's not our fault.
2. It's not our problem.
3. We're underfunded.
I'm thinking we should make this our default kitchen table math post on days when everyone's too busy to write something new.
Then there's this:
If kids don't learn math, it's because they're not capable of learning it. And if they enter high school five years behind grade level, then it's up to the parents and the high schools to catch them up. Either way, they need more money so that they can facilitate kids learning on their own.
My Reply:
Catherine - How do you deal with blogs that you recognize in your blogroll, like Dy/Dan and Teaching in the 408 (may it RIP), that specifically and powerfully argue against this idea? Do you think it aids those educators engaged in tackling the excuse-making attitudes of some of our colleagues when you apply this label so generally? Do you think it inspires our nation's talented youth to look to or stay in the classroom for their career when this is the public perception they meet?
The more you blame educators, whether positioned in the classroom or district office, for the failing education system, the more you must recognize that we are the solution. Only a corps of great teachers, inspired to offer their best, can provide the U.S. with the sort of public education system you all dream of on this blog. Instead of a default to untempered criticism, add an ounce of contribution. What are you doing to make that happen?
Here's my "entire philosophy for K-6 education."
1. Fault is for the politicians and academics. I worry and wonder about 5th graders who can't read.
2. It's our problem, whether or not we're equipped, prepared or intended to solve it. The best of us accept that and get to work.
3. We're undermanned, but thus underfunded because it takes money to get people. If you know how to get us experts and professionals on the cheap, make *that* your default post.
---
So go ahead, give in to temptation to boil it all down to tasteless nothingness. What would your three be?
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
The People Live with Their Pigs (And PCs)
Tired of the city, tired of the culturally ambiguous modern Shanghai, we were excited to get out to the country on this trip. We wanted to see some of “real China.” We wanted to meet some Chinese people. So in between the splendors of karst hills and rice terraces, we decided to leave the typical tourist path a little. We hired a guide who planned our trip to small minority villages and little towns, arranged transportation, met us at the airport, and whisked us off.
We didn’t have to do any of the work, and yet, we were so unready.
In our hasty desire to see The People, we’d forgotten that, frankly, The People live in poverty and squalor. The People don’t have hot water, screens on their windows, and proper sanitation. The People live with their pigs.
Our first hint of just where we were going came when our guide suggested we stop and buy bottled water. Now, we drink bottled water in Shanghai, so this hardly seemed unusual. Then she explained, we were buying water for the whole week. They didn’t sell it where we were headed.
Oh.
We drove for eight-hours, over and around mountains, and through gorgeous red hills bedecked with terraces of tea. It is the spring harvest and workers in blue with their traditional conical caps were picking away at the young leaves while toddlers waddled nearby. From the road, we peered up and down at small villages, nestled in tiny valleys or against sharp hillsides, made exclusively of patched together wood houses. Power lines jarred the landscape and satellite dishes the architecture, but these were the only conspicuous elements of development.
As we walked down to the first village where we were to stay the night, our guide explained that the satellite dishes were an effort by the government to teach the people of these villages “the rules.” We snickered a little, thinking this meant some manner of propagandizing, but then she explained more, and it became clear that she meant “health and safety” sorts of rules, not political or legal ones. Then we walked through the village and it became obvious why this effort was gravely needed.
Animals roamed freely through the streets, littering the whole town with their waste, before taking nightly residence on the bottom floor of the houses. Little children toddled and played right through the waste. Household trash was dumped in whatever corner or on whatever hillside was mildly out of sight. Sometimes it was burned, filling the air with a vicious stench, and sometimes it was just clearly left to rot. The plastic remains of individually packaged snacks and goods were incessantly underfoot. All of this could be seen as a gross nuisance, but on a walk through one village, our guide pointed to a clinic filled with mothers or grandparents and their small children with IVs. “This is a hospital,” she told us, “they have a lot of sick children in these villages.”
The dignity of the simple life, however, was equally apparent. In the tiny village we were visiting, an elder had just passed away and our guide explained that the music we could hear wafting through the down was a funereal song, making this announcement. Now, she explained, everyone in the village would know that this family was grieving and would come to pay respects and help them through the difficult times. She noted, and we agreed, how such decency and community might never happen in a city. Unlike Shanghai, we never ended our days feeling battered by the jostling crowds or on edge from having to fight our way through the store and back. We talked about how the children were free to roam and how houses were not simply unlocked but open. She, speaking the local tongue, encouraged us to enter several homes, unarranged and uninvited, but we were always met kindly and once foisted with food. The food was something else entirely.
Regardless of their circumstance, it seems that The People know how to cook. Even in the darkest corner of the dirtiest kitchen, even in the government cafeteria of a small town, or a random empty noodle shop on a side road to nowhere, we ate well. We had weeds, we had chicken eggs (and not the kind they lay), we had a completely unknown root, and our only poor meal was when we tried to eat Western food at a tourist spot. Home again, we have since found ourselves tackling local joints we had never thought we would try.
Beyond re-enthusing us for Chinese food, our trip revitalized our expatriate spirits. We had allowed ourselves to become bogged down in work and big city life, and neither offer the sort of experience that justifies all we gave up when we left home. It’s easy to start thinking that we’re here to work in China. In fact, we’re here to live in China and work. It’s up to us to make the most of our breaks and weekends.
Finally, after and despite the appalling poverty, I found myself feeling a renewed gratitude for all I have. Even here in Shanghai, it is easy to feel deprived away from all the comforts of life in the US, but I’m reminded again of what it really means to have not. Nonetheless, I also feel a little hopeful for the Chinese rural poor. Everywhere we went, new roads and houses were being built. A train line is being run that will link the largest of these villages to the big cities of the South. And some gains are coming at the speed of light.
One night, as we went up to our rooms in the village leader’s house in the tiniest village we visited, I spied a familiar glow emanating from a room behind the stairs. I peeked past the door and here, in house still shared with two pigs, there were six computers, each manned with an adolescent. Some were chatting, some were playing games, and one appeared to be reading or writing a blog. Our guide explained, “The leader is a very clever man. He knows what the kids need to learn.”
Indeed!
We didn’t have to do any of the work, and yet, we were so unready.
In our hasty desire to see The People, we’d forgotten that, frankly, The People live in poverty and squalor. The People don’t have hot water, screens on their windows, and proper sanitation. The People live with their pigs.
Our first hint of just where we were going came when our guide suggested we stop and buy bottled water. Now, we drink bottled water in Shanghai, so this hardly seemed unusual. Then she explained, we were buying water for the whole week. They didn’t sell it where we were headed.
Oh.
We drove for eight-hours, over and around mountains, and through gorgeous red hills bedecked with terraces of tea. It is the spring harvest and workers in blue with their traditional conical caps were picking away at the young leaves while toddlers waddled nearby. From the road, we peered up and down at small villages, nestled in tiny valleys or against sharp hillsides, made exclusively of patched together wood houses. Power lines jarred the landscape and satellite dishes the architecture, but these were the only conspicuous elements of development.
As we walked down to the first village where we were to stay the night, our guide explained that the satellite dishes were an effort by the government to teach the people of these villages “the rules.” We snickered a little, thinking this meant some manner of propagandizing, but then she explained more, and it became clear that she meant “health and safety” sorts of rules, not political or legal ones. Then we walked through the village and it became obvious why this effort was gravely needed.
Animals roamed freely through the streets, littering the whole town with their waste, before taking nightly residence on the bottom floor of the houses. Little children toddled and played right through the waste. Household trash was dumped in whatever corner or on whatever hillside was mildly out of sight. Sometimes it was burned, filling the air with a vicious stench, and sometimes it was just clearly left to rot. The plastic remains of individually packaged snacks and goods were incessantly underfoot. All of this could be seen as a gross nuisance, but on a walk through one village, our guide pointed to a clinic filled with mothers or grandparents and their small children with IVs. “This is a hospital,” she told us, “they have a lot of sick children in these villages.”
The dignity of the simple life, however, was equally apparent. In the tiny village we were visiting, an elder had just passed away and our guide explained that the music we could hear wafting through the down was a funereal song, making this announcement. Now, she explained, everyone in the village would know that this family was grieving and would come to pay respects and help them through the difficult times. She noted, and we agreed, how such decency and community might never happen in a city. Unlike Shanghai, we never ended our days feeling battered by the jostling crowds or on edge from having to fight our way through the store and back. We talked about how the children were free to roam and how houses were not simply unlocked but open. She, speaking the local tongue, encouraged us to enter several homes, unarranged and uninvited, but we were always met kindly and once foisted with food. The food was something else entirely.
Regardless of their circumstance, it seems that The People know how to cook. Even in the darkest corner of the dirtiest kitchen, even in the government cafeteria of a small town, or a random empty noodle shop on a side road to nowhere, we ate well. We had weeds, we had chicken eggs (and not the kind they lay), we had a completely unknown root, and our only poor meal was when we tried to eat Western food at a tourist spot. Home again, we have since found ourselves tackling local joints we had never thought we would try.
Beyond re-enthusing us for Chinese food, our trip revitalized our expatriate spirits. We had allowed ourselves to become bogged down in work and big city life, and neither offer the sort of experience that justifies all we gave up when we left home. It’s easy to start thinking that we’re here to work in China. In fact, we’re here to live in China and work. It’s up to us to make the most of our breaks and weekends.
Finally, after and despite the appalling poverty, I found myself feeling a renewed gratitude for all I have. Even here in Shanghai, it is easy to feel deprived away from all the comforts of life in the US, but I’m reminded again of what it really means to have not. Nonetheless, I also feel a little hopeful for the Chinese rural poor. Everywhere we went, new roads and houses were being built. A train line is being run that will link the largest of these villages to the big cities of the South. And some gains are coming at the speed of light.
One night, as we went up to our rooms in the village leader’s house in the tiniest village we visited, I spied a familiar glow emanating from a room behind the stairs. I peeked past the door and here, in house still shared with two pigs, there were six computers, each manned with an adolescent. Some were chatting, some were playing games, and one appeared to be reading or writing a blog. Our guide explained, “The leader is a very clever man. He knows what the kids need to learn.”
Indeed!
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Karst Hills and Terraced Farms
Imagine great icebergs of stone, lightly shrouded in clouds, floating across a sea of rice paddies.
The karst of southeastern China are iconic enough to bedeck the back of the twenty yuan bill, but such frequent and mundane viewing does little to temper the experience of actually seeing them in person. These limestone hills are formed as the stone around them unevenly eroded away and then washed round by rain. They range in height from a few hundred feet to over a thousand and they populate the southeastern landscape in uncountable numbers.
From any perspective, they are simply magnificent. From a river raft or bike ride at their feet, they tower upwards with great suddenness, their sides awash in green vegetation and grey stone. From higher or farther, they fill your field of view, forming congregations like some geologic Manhattan, an expanse of massive stone skyscrapers, irregular and dense, with slivers of valleys running between them. Leaving or arriving, you see them in the distance, amassed on the horizon and forming a pattern surreal in size and shape, like the edge of some fantasy world.
If you can possibly swallow a scene even more spectacular, you can drive only two hours northwest to see the terraced rice fields of Longsheng County. Hillsides thousands of feet in their descent have been hand carved into the service of cultivation. Paddies range from ten yards to barely a foot across. From the side or below, they look like steps fit for a giant. From above, the most splendid vista is appropriately titled the “Dragon’s Backbone.”
We saw them two weeks ago, as they were being prepared for the spring planting. Most were not yet flooded, but were being plowed, as they have for many thousands of years, by a man and an ox. But despite their fame and history, they are a fickle tourist site. We arrived just before sunset and watched them in colorful splendor for about an hour. Then a fog bank rolled in and, after artfully veiling the hills for a few minutes, enveloped them completely and didn’t leave until well after we did.
But I can’t complain. Both sights, even if taken in for only a few minutes, offer the sort of mesmerizing magnificence that makes it hard to walk, talk, or even take a picture. You just want to look back and forth, taking it all in. It makes smile even now, two weeks later, just to think about them.
But we had a full week to explore and saw a whole lot more than we ever expected.
(Part II – The People Live With Their Pigs (And PCs), Tomorrow)
The karst of southeastern China are iconic enough to bedeck the back of the twenty yuan bill, but such frequent and mundane viewing does little to temper the experience of actually seeing them in person. These limestone hills are formed as the stone around them unevenly eroded away and then washed round by rain. They range in height from a few hundred feet to over a thousand and they populate the southeastern landscape in uncountable numbers.
From any perspective, they are simply magnificent. From a river raft or bike ride at their feet, they tower upwards with great suddenness, their sides awash in green vegetation and grey stone. From higher or farther, they fill your field of view, forming congregations like some geologic Manhattan, an expanse of massive stone skyscrapers, irregular and dense, with slivers of valleys running between them. Leaving or arriving, you see them in the distance, amassed on the horizon and forming a pattern surreal in size and shape, like the edge of some fantasy world.
If you can possibly swallow a scene even more spectacular, you can drive only two hours northwest to see the terraced rice fields of Longsheng County. Hillsides thousands of feet in their descent have been hand carved into the service of cultivation. Paddies range from ten yards to barely a foot across. From the side or below, they look like steps fit for a giant. From above, the most splendid vista is appropriately titled the “Dragon’s Backbone.”
We saw them two weeks ago, as they were being prepared for the spring planting. Most were not yet flooded, but were being plowed, as they have for many thousands of years, by a man and an ox. But despite their fame and history, they are a fickle tourist site. We arrived just before sunset and watched them in colorful splendor for about an hour. Then a fog bank rolled in and, after artfully veiling the hills for a few minutes, enveloped them completely and didn’t leave until well after we did.
But I can’t complain. Both sights, even if taken in for only a few minutes, offer the sort of mesmerizing magnificence that makes it hard to walk, talk, or even take a picture. You just want to look back and forth, taking it all in. It makes smile even now, two weeks later, just to think about them.
But we had a full week to explore and saw a whole lot more than we ever expected.
(Part II – The People Live With Their Pigs (And PCs), Tomorrow)
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Difficulty of Eating Chinese in China
A month ago, our favorite Chinese restaurant in our neighborhood closed down and left a gaping hole in our culinary life.
Chinese restaurants are, as you might expect, rather common here. But this one was special: it was owned and managed by an older gentleman named Perkins, who spoke completely fluent English. He, it turned out, had spent many vacations visiting family in the U.S. and even driven through my hometown. His restaurant served dishes from all across China, another happy eccentricity. Across our first five months here, with Perkins as our guide, we were gradually being introduced to more and more “real” Chinese dishes. The man was something akin to an expert sushi chef, who would, in the course of small talk, decipher what we really needed and order it for us. Under his expert tutelage, we began to experience all manner of soups, vegetables and fish dishes we had never before encountered. It was marvelous.
But now he’s gone. And without him, we were having trouble summoning the adventurousness to find a new Chinese favorite.
I’ll freely admit that we are often intimidated by the truly local joints, either because they’re packed with smoking taxi cab drivers, completely empty except for some desperate looking wait staff, or feature a menu entirely without pictures or the few simple characters I can recognize. Of course, we know some simple favorites in Mandarin, but how many times can anyone eat pork/beef/chicken, eggplant, green vegetable, and rice in any six months? Further, after a few bouts with stomach ailments, I have found myself reluctant to be too adventurous when it comes to spice or sanitation. This had knocked off our second favorite Chinese restaurant, a Uyguhr place down the street that was a little bit of a stretch on both counts.
Two weeks ago, my wife realized that we’d gone too long avoiding the issue. We could not live in China and eat Chinese any less than twice a week. We had to stop grieving for Perkins and move on. We cheated for a bit and went to the basement food court of Carrefour, with an abundance of little Chinese food stalls available on a point and shoot basis. Then we were taken to an exquisite Chinese gourmet restaurant that made us reluctant to taste anything inferior. We ate our fill of baozi and fried dough from the street food vendors, but we knew were just stalling. Soon we were staring at a series of trips to Japanese, Vietnamese, Taiwanese, Japanese-Italian, and even a Mexican place, and feeling more than a little ridiculous. We had to admit that we’d grown accustomed to getting our Chinese food too easily and were now scared to fight for it like real travelers.
We had to start small. We choked up some courage and pushed ourselves to visit Dumpling Master. D.M. is a clean and trendy looking chain shop with a cuisine that might be easily inferred from its name. We had tried to go here before, shortly after it opened, but were deterred by the wordy menu and confused expressions from the wait staff. But dumplings sounded particularly good and the cleanliness was a big draw. This time, we were speedily seated, but again brought totally illegible menus. We began to try and piece together how and what to order, based off of price and a total of three pictures, when our waiter came up. Good service in China seems to be indicated by standing over a table from the moment the customers sit down until they finishing ordering. The pressure mounted and we couldn’t even figure out what came with what and when. We looked at each other and wondered aloud whether we should just give up and leave.
Then, our server crouched down and looked at our menus and, clearly understanding our plight, said in English, “Maybe I can help?”
Chinese restaurants are, as you might expect, rather common here. But this one was special: it was owned and managed by an older gentleman named Perkins, who spoke completely fluent English. He, it turned out, had spent many vacations visiting family in the U.S. and even driven through my hometown. His restaurant served dishes from all across China, another happy eccentricity. Across our first five months here, with Perkins as our guide, we were gradually being introduced to more and more “real” Chinese dishes. The man was something akin to an expert sushi chef, who would, in the course of small talk, decipher what we really needed and order it for us. Under his expert tutelage, we began to experience all manner of soups, vegetables and fish dishes we had never before encountered. It was marvelous.
But now he’s gone. And without him, we were having trouble summoning the adventurousness to find a new Chinese favorite.
I’ll freely admit that we are often intimidated by the truly local joints, either because they’re packed with smoking taxi cab drivers, completely empty except for some desperate looking wait staff, or feature a menu entirely without pictures or the few simple characters I can recognize. Of course, we know some simple favorites in Mandarin, but how many times can anyone eat pork/beef/chicken, eggplant, green vegetable, and rice in any six months? Further, after a few bouts with stomach ailments, I have found myself reluctant to be too adventurous when it comes to spice or sanitation. This had knocked off our second favorite Chinese restaurant, a Uyguhr place down the street that was a little bit of a stretch on both counts.
Two weeks ago, my wife realized that we’d gone too long avoiding the issue. We could not live in China and eat Chinese any less than twice a week. We had to stop grieving for Perkins and move on. We cheated for a bit and went to the basement food court of Carrefour, with an abundance of little Chinese food stalls available on a point and shoot basis. Then we were taken to an exquisite Chinese gourmet restaurant that made us reluctant to taste anything inferior. We ate our fill of baozi and fried dough from the street food vendors, but we knew were just stalling. Soon we were staring at a series of trips to Japanese, Vietnamese, Taiwanese, Japanese-Italian, and even a Mexican place, and feeling more than a little ridiculous. We had to admit that we’d grown accustomed to getting our Chinese food too easily and were now scared to fight for it like real travelers.
We had to start small. We choked up some courage and pushed ourselves to visit Dumpling Master. D.M. is a clean and trendy looking chain shop with a cuisine that might be easily inferred from its name. We had tried to go here before, shortly after it opened, but were deterred by the wordy menu and confused expressions from the wait staff. But dumplings sounded particularly good and the cleanliness was a big draw. This time, we were speedily seated, but again brought totally illegible menus. We began to try and piece together how and what to order, based off of price and a total of three pictures, when our waiter came up. Good service in China seems to be indicated by standing over a table from the moment the customers sit down until they finishing ordering. The pressure mounted and we couldn’t even figure out what came with what and when. We looked at each other and wondered aloud whether we should just give up and leave.
Then, our server crouched down and looked at our menus and, clearly understanding our plight, said in English, “Maybe I can help?”
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Us and Them
The last month has beaten me down with a variety of winter illnesses, always striking over the weekend or right at the beginning of the week when I’ve time to write. But now I’m healthier and ready to blog!
---
It seems like a truism that living abroad would make you more respectful of the differences between peoples, more understanding of the common humanity of nations around the world or, at least, more culturally sensitive and savvy.
Not always, I’m finding.
All too easily, a bit of stress or shock is all it takes to scrape off our thin veneer of respect and sensitivity and reveal a mentality of “Us and Them” that we share with expatriates of the earlier eras. I’m as guilty as the next expat, but I plead remorse and reflection in hopes it spares my traveling soul.
Many times, living here, I find myself slipping into the feeling that I am fighting against a tide. I’m battling waves of men spitting on the sidewalk, grandmothers letting their baby defecate in the street, hoards jostling to get on the subway before anyone has gotten off, or boys driving their motor scooters up a crowded sidewalk. I become convinced that I am being targeted because I’m foreign, ---that they try to snatch my cab because they know I can’t swear at them and won’t resist that much.
And always, always, it’s about “them.” We know better than to speak too often of “The Chinese,” as it rings of unmitigated colonial racism, so it becomes a vague pronoun that somehow serves only to make it worse. “They” are a nameless, faceless mass of black-haired spitters, hawkers, smokers, and thieves who are bent upon popping the bubble of happier, cleaner, quieter, more decent and ---though we so don't want to say it--- more Western ways, we try endlessly to puff up around us.
At school, some items of value have gone missing and we are painfully quick to accuse “Them.” (I can’t help but say “We,” though I find myself in complete disagreement with my colleagues.) Some suggest, with an attempt at earnest sympathy, that times are hard and wages are low, the problem would be solved if we paid them more. With money comes morals, after all, as evidenced so well in the US right now. Others, almost choking on their own racism, ask, “Who else could it be, you know, they have the keys?” The thought never occurs to “us,” of course, that it could be one of “us.” Worse yet, though, is the unspoken reality that we do not even know most of “their” names. When we talk about who may have stolen what, we have to describe faces and haircuts. “Us” and “them” is just all we know.
There is no chance for them to become our friends, or at least gain the sort of names, lives and identities that forestall the merger into "Them" ness. Here, just as long ago, expats can and are expected to satisfy every aspect of their social life, from going to church to joining a sports team, in their own little bubble. Even where the opportunity exists for Us and Them to meet and know each the other, at work, the language and precedent does not.
Saddest of all, perhaps, is how this descent into dichotomies seems almost inevitable when we stop traveling and start living abroad. Living abroad gives us the opportunity to see a country in a depth beyond shallowness of the spectacular. But once we have settled in, once the awe and excitement fades, we find that below the surface is the murky, dark and cold. The day-in-and-out grinding of the unfamiliar and uncomfortable leads us to forget a little of why we came. After a stressful week at work, we enter the weekend bent on living our own life, finding decent Mexican food and a book to read. Sometimes, a new park or an old building knocks us back to a state of happy amazement and dizzy intrigue with China. But all too often it goes the other way. A crazed driver and errant elbow combine to make us discard all thought of the incomparable complexity and majesty of this 4000 year-old civilization and to focus exclusively on all that divides “Us” and “Them.”
---
It seems like a truism that living abroad would make you more respectful of the differences between peoples, more understanding of the common humanity of nations around the world or, at least, more culturally sensitive and savvy.
Not always, I’m finding.
All too easily, a bit of stress or shock is all it takes to scrape off our thin veneer of respect and sensitivity and reveal a mentality of “Us and Them” that we share with expatriates of the earlier eras. I’m as guilty as the next expat, but I plead remorse and reflection in hopes it spares my traveling soul.
Many times, living here, I find myself slipping into the feeling that I am fighting against a tide. I’m battling waves of men spitting on the sidewalk, grandmothers letting their baby defecate in the street, hoards jostling to get on the subway before anyone has gotten off, or boys driving their motor scooters up a crowded sidewalk. I become convinced that I am being targeted because I’m foreign, ---that they try to snatch my cab because they know I can’t swear at them and won’t resist that much.
And always, always, it’s about “them.” We know better than to speak too often of “The Chinese,” as it rings of unmitigated colonial racism, so it becomes a vague pronoun that somehow serves only to make it worse. “They” are a nameless, faceless mass of black-haired spitters, hawkers, smokers, and thieves who are bent upon popping the bubble of happier, cleaner, quieter, more decent and ---though we so don't want to say it--- more Western ways, we try endlessly to puff up around us.
At school, some items of value have gone missing and we are painfully quick to accuse “Them.” (I can’t help but say “We,” though I find myself in complete disagreement with my colleagues.) Some suggest, with an attempt at earnest sympathy, that times are hard and wages are low, the problem would be solved if we paid them more. With money comes morals, after all, as evidenced so well in the US right now. Others, almost choking on their own racism, ask, “Who else could it be, you know, they have the keys?” The thought never occurs to “us,” of course, that it could be one of “us.” Worse yet, though, is the unspoken reality that we do not even know most of “their” names. When we talk about who may have stolen what, we have to describe faces and haircuts. “Us” and “them” is just all we know.
There is no chance for them to become our friends, or at least gain the sort of names, lives and identities that forestall the merger into "Them" ness. Here, just as long ago, expats can and are expected to satisfy every aspect of their social life, from going to church to joining a sports team, in their own little bubble. Even where the opportunity exists for Us and Them to meet and know each the other, at work, the language and precedent does not.
Saddest of all, perhaps, is how this descent into dichotomies seems almost inevitable when we stop traveling and start living abroad. Living abroad gives us the opportunity to see a country in a depth beyond shallowness of the spectacular. But once we have settled in, once the awe and excitement fades, we find that below the surface is the murky, dark and cold. The day-in-and-out grinding of the unfamiliar and uncomfortable leads us to forget a little of why we came. After a stressful week at work, we enter the weekend bent on living our own life, finding decent Mexican food and a book to read. Sometimes, a new park or an old building knocks us back to a state of happy amazement and dizzy intrigue with China. But all too often it goes the other way. A crazed driver and errant elbow combine to make us discard all thought of the incomparable complexity and majesty of this 4000 year-old civilization and to focus exclusively on all that divides “Us” and “Them.”
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Hong Kong
Despite spending the last six months in an epic city of tens of millions, my wife and I still felt like a pair of bumpkins when we arrived in Hong Kong. From the architecture to the transport, the shopping to the food, Hong Kong is a city whose density, diversity and accessibility rival any other destination around. In our three days there, we barely scratched the surface of this tremendous archipelago.
Hong Kong is a vertical city. It is now the world’s second tallest, according to Forbes, with 30 buildings over 700 feet. While New York has a handful more, Hong Kong’s greater density and hilly backdrop makes the skyline massively more impressive. Manhattan seems positively spacious compared to the pockets of buildable land on Hong Kong island, which has sagely restricted new building through the creation of parks and reserves, as well as a cap on “reclaiming” land from the harbor. Such demands have left little incentive to leave buildings under 20 stories intact.
That’s not to say that Hong Kong is a towering beast made entirely of glass and steel. Despite its size and density, the finance capital was still engaging and approachable. Our walks around the heart of the city took us past neoclassical and colonial government buildings, down café-lined streets fit for Europe, through a gorgeous and quiet botanical garden, across the campus of a simple Episcopalian church and left us peeking over a wall at a bright green mosque. Further, when one neighborhood, city or even island grew monotonous, we could just hop on the nearest bus, subway, ferry or escalator and see something new.
New York, London and Tokyo all get the fame for mass transportation, but if you really want to see a city move people, go to Hong Kong. A mass network of ferries, trams, double-decker buses, subway and high-speed rail is simply the first round. Hong Kong ups the game with jet-foils, a cable car, helicopters, and even the world’s longest series of escalators. Almost all of them accessible with a single, aptly named “octopus” debit card, ---that can also be used to pay for your morning Starbucks.
By 2050, I suspect Hong Kong will have developed a series of connections between skyscrapers that allow residents to skip the time-wasting rides in elevators and travel about the city entirely on the 23rd floor, in tubes.
Our second day in Hong Kong, a twenty minute trip on a double-decker bus took us to the opposite side of the island, and the little beach town of Stanley. This little village, sadly thronged with people, offered us little in the way of tourism, but everything in the way of shopping. Sure, Hong Kong has its Nathan Road, its fabulous malls, its Italian brands you’re just not rich enough to even know of, but so does Shanghai. It’s the simple stuff we can’t get. We were simply stunned to find, in a medium-sized market in a little town, American goods beyond our wildest dreams, --- cheap Mach 3 razor blades, Vaseline body lotion, and even shoes for our big American feet. It was Christmas in January, folks. Forget the Gucci purse, this was a shop-till-you-drop experience expatriate style.
By our third day, my wife and I were ready for a change of pace, and Hong Kong’s archipelago of smaller islands seemed a perfect respite. Because it was Chinese New Year, we skipped the more popular Lantau and Lanma for Cheung Chau. This car-less island of 30,000 seemed to have much more in common with a Greek isle than the Asian epicenter of urbanism only an hour’s ferry ride away. The ferry pier was, expectedly, surrounded by a tourist market, but once past that we enjoyed views of a harbor full of fishing boats, bedecked in red and gold bows, flags, lanterns and other accroutements of New Year’s. Soon, we climbed the island’s quiet north hill but were disappointed by a haze-suppressed view and frightened by roving packs of stray dogs. We descended through lovely little alleys, surrounded by apartments whose varied levels of renovation reflected a diverse population seeking the island lifestyle. Cheung Chau seems to have its fair share of both native fisherman and rich urbanites seeking a retreat. Nonetheless, the exterior styling of the buildings, rich and poor, was inevitably “beachy,” the sort of peeling-paint, falling-fence, rusted gate look that I’ve found preeminent in beach towns in California, Tanzania, Italy and now, China. My theory is that it’s a combination of natural influence of sand and salt and a human attitude that says, “I live thirty yards from the sea, how much do you really expect me to care?”
Nothing made us feel more like the Chinese country cousins than Hong Kong’s food scene. Shanghai has a tremendous range of international restaurants, but they are consistent only in their exaggerated expense. One walk down a street in Hong Kong’s Soho left us watering at the mouth, convinced of the quality behind the glass by an indescribable combination of décor, atmosphere, menus, and plate sightings. Painfully, our winter trip to Japan meant that we had to be easy on the wallet and restrict our consumption to lighter fare. We had olives, wine, and cheese, and enjoyed organic pizza and cereal. We erred once with supermarket sushi, still apparently only a good idea in Japan, but were otherwise delighted in every choice.
We couldn’t neglect the local specialties, though, and made a lunchtime trip to Maxim’s Palace at City Hall, a dim sum institution. The restaurant consumes the third floor of a large performance center, with an ever-full banquet hall that seats many hundreds. When we visited, it seemed every available wall space, and even the windows, were covered in decorations celebrating the New Year. “Ordering” and eating was a similar experience to a churrascaria, where men-bearing-meat badger you with savory offerings until you admit defeat and tell them no. Here, it was older women pushing carts of steaming dumpling goodness. We had a barrage of shrimp, pork, and leafy greens that left us full until the next morning… and our ferry ride to Macau.
Hong Kong is a vertical city. It is now the world’s second tallest, according to Forbes, with 30 buildings over 700 feet. While New York has a handful more, Hong Kong’s greater density and hilly backdrop makes the skyline massively more impressive. Manhattan seems positively spacious compared to the pockets of buildable land on Hong Kong island, which has sagely restricted new building through the creation of parks and reserves, as well as a cap on “reclaiming” land from the harbor. Such demands have left little incentive to leave buildings under 20 stories intact.
That’s not to say that Hong Kong is a towering beast made entirely of glass and steel. Despite its size and density, the finance capital was still engaging and approachable. Our walks around the heart of the city took us past neoclassical and colonial government buildings, down café-lined streets fit for Europe, through a gorgeous and quiet botanical garden, across the campus of a simple Episcopalian church and left us peeking over a wall at a bright green mosque. Further, when one neighborhood, city or even island grew monotonous, we could just hop on the nearest bus, subway, ferry or escalator and see something new.
New York, London and Tokyo all get the fame for mass transportation, but if you really want to see a city move people, go to Hong Kong. A mass network of ferries, trams, double-decker buses, subway and high-speed rail is simply the first round. Hong Kong ups the game with jet-foils, a cable car, helicopters, and even the world’s longest series of escalators. Almost all of them accessible with a single, aptly named “octopus” debit card, ---that can also be used to pay for your morning Starbucks.
By 2050, I suspect Hong Kong will have developed a series of connections between skyscrapers that allow residents to skip the time-wasting rides in elevators and travel about the city entirely on the 23rd floor, in tubes.
Our second day in Hong Kong, a twenty minute trip on a double-decker bus took us to the opposite side of the island, and the little beach town of Stanley. This little village, sadly thronged with people, offered us little in the way of tourism, but everything in the way of shopping. Sure, Hong Kong has its Nathan Road, its fabulous malls, its Italian brands you’re just not rich enough to even know of, but so does Shanghai. It’s the simple stuff we can’t get. We were simply stunned to find, in a medium-sized market in a little town, American goods beyond our wildest dreams, --- cheap Mach 3 razor blades, Vaseline body lotion, and even shoes for our big American feet. It was Christmas in January, folks. Forget the Gucci purse, this was a shop-till-you-drop experience expatriate style.
By our third day, my wife and I were ready for a change of pace, and Hong Kong’s archipelago of smaller islands seemed a perfect respite. Because it was Chinese New Year, we skipped the more popular Lantau and Lanma for Cheung Chau. This car-less island of 30,000 seemed to have much more in common with a Greek isle than the Asian epicenter of urbanism only an hour’s ferry ride away. The ferry pier was, expectedly, surrounded by a tourist market, but once past that we enjoyed views of a harbor full of fishing boats, bedecked in red and gold bows, flags, lanterns and other accroutements of New Year’s. Soon, we climbed the island’s quiet north hill but were disappointed by a haze-suppressed view and frightened by roving packs of stray dogs. We descended through lovely little alleys, surrounded by apartments whose varied levels of renovation reflected a diverse population seeking the island lifestyle. Cheung Chau seems to have its fair share of both native fisherman and rich urbanites seeking a retreat. Nonetheless, the exterior styling of the buildings, rich and poor, was inevitably “beachy,” the sort of peeling-paint, falling-fence, rusted gate look that I’ve found preeminent in beach towns in California, Tanzania, Italy and now, China. My theory is that it’s a combination of natural influence of sand and salt and a human attitude that says, “I live thirty yards from the sea, how much do you really expect me to care?”
Nothing made us feel more like the Chinese country cousins than Hong Kong’s food scene. Shanghai has a tremendous range of international restaurants, but they are consistent only in their exaggerated expense. One walk down a street in Hong Kong’s Soho left us watering at the mouth, convinced of the quality behind the glass by an indescribable combination of décor, atmosphere, menus, and plate sightings. Painfully, our winter trip to Japan meant that we had to be easy on the wallet and restrict our consumption to lighter fare. We had olives, wine, and cheese, and enjoyed organic pizza and cereal. We erred once with supermarket sushi, still apparently only a good idea in Japan, but were otherwise delighted in every choice.
We couldn’t neglect the local specialties, though, and made a lunchtime trip to Maxim’s Palace at City Hall, a dim sum institution. The restaurant consumes the third floor of a large performance center, with an ever-full banquet hall that seats many hundreds. When we visited, it seemed every available wall space, and even the windows, were covered in decorations celebrating the New Year. “Ordering” and eating was a similar experience to a churrascaria, where men-bearing-meat badger you with savory offerings until you admit defeat and tell them no. Here, it was older women pushing carts of steaming dumpling goodness. We had a barrage of shrimp, pork, and leafy greens that left us full until the next morning… and our ferry ride to Macau.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The Ox Comes Thundering In
If you ever start to feel like you’ve seen so much that nothing really impresses anymore, come to Shanghai for the midnight celebration of the Lunar New Year. (Spring Festival, as it’s called here) If it doesn’t excite you, ready the defibrillator.
The celebration started a day early for us. Around ten or eleven the night before the big night the compound guards launched a few rounds of fireworks. They were just impatient and having fun. It was nothing more than a sample, a minute taste, of the spectacle to come. Excited in our ignorance, we lay some cushions in our bay window and huddled under some blankets, bracing ourselves against the cold glass. Had we known what was to come, we would’ve just trimmed our fingernails or organized our sweater drawers instead.
The next day, we had dinner and started to wash our dishes. But as soon as the sun set, our neighbors began to light off fireworks. We would rush from what we were doing to catch a glimpse, only too often to find them done by the time we reached the right room and window. By about seven, there were enough fireworks that the booms became incessant. After twenty minutes of zipping about from room to room to catch the best view, the sight started to feel monotonous and we went about our night-time routine. I showered, picked up dirty clothes, and scrubbed the floor, all with an explosive soundtrack in the background. At eight, we made some dessert and watched the CCTV “Spring Festival Gala” on T.V. (More on that another day) Around nine, three boxes of mortars, each spaced a block apart were going off on a street parallel to our building. We watched for a while, but decided we were pretty cold in the corner room and retreated to the bedroom. By ten, we were so jaded we would peek out at fireworks only from our bedroom, and only if they were particularly close. Around eleven, with the peppering of sound in the background, my wife fell soundly asleep. We joked about her ability to sleep through anything. She only lasted about thirty-five minutes.
I was working on my computer and didn’t notice at first, until a particularly close set of sharp firecrackers sent my eyes to the clock. I knew that midnight was said to be something special; it was around 11:20 and I returned to my work. Then the booming started in earnest, and I looked out the window and saw a complex a mile away beginning to launch some larger fireworks. Across the ensuing minutes, they come closer and louder. By 11:40, the crescendo was unmistakable and a glance out the window revealed three mortars firing at once. My wife woke up and I started trying to convince her to go outside. Like instruments joining the melody of some triumphant symphony, every moment brought another firing to the array of sight and sound. Each minute seemed to compound with explosions in a new range or register. By 11:50, there were six, seven, eight distinct displays occurring simultaneously. Greens, blues, reds and whites lit the sky near and far. Whistles, pops, bangs, booms, sizzles, resounded with precisely what they were: a percussion section composed entirely of explosives, ignited independently by hundreds of individuals, their sound somehow unified only by their steadily increasing numbers. By 11:56, we headed out to our balcony.
Outside, the symphony had become a maelstrom, a hurricane of sight and sound. Within and beyond our complex, there were more fireworks exploding than we could possibly witness. Each slight turn of the head revealed at least a half-dozen different blossoms of fire. Below us, residents were lighting off strings of firecrackers that seemed to combine into an endless stream of pops. As midnight approached, the fury of the fireworks grew impossibly more intense until it seemed that every building near and far was bathed in showers of color. Fireworks fit to entertain whole cities were being launched between buildings not thirty yards apart. Embers would collide with the side of our twenty story towers and bounce or slide down. Shorter buildings in the distance were surrounded by streams of colored fire.
Soon, we saw a mortar being set up directly below our balcony and scurried inside for cover. We dashed from room to room, seeing and feeling ourselves immersed in the explosions going on above, below, near and far. Our office, the very corner room with the best windows, presented a dizzying array of spectacles. No sooner had we settled there, than a shower of sparks and explosions right outside our window drew us back to the bedroom. As we lay on our bay window shelf, the fireworks were exploding not ten feet above us, so bright as to seem dangerous just to watch.
Once they finished, we again found ourselves running from room to room to catch the best displays. Smoke leaked into our sealed apartment and seemed to envelope the city outside. By 12:15, the decrescendo had begun. Booms near and far, high and low began to fall away, never concluding. One lone resident, with a simply massive cannon of sparks, smoke and sound, offered something of a finale, sending his loudest of booms out across the neighborhood every minute or two. Even now, as I write this two hours later, the fireworks are still echoing on. Every four or five minutes a lone series of booms or a string of pops splits the night.
Happy New Year!
The celebration started a day early for us. Around ten or eleven the night before the big night the compound guards launched a few rounds of fireworks. They were just impatient and having fun. It was nothing more than a sample, a minute taste, of the spectacle to come. Excited in our ignorance, we lay some cushions in our bay window and huddled under some blankets, bracing ourselves against the cold glass. Had we known what was to come, we would’ve just trimmed our fingernails or organized our sweater drawers instead.
The next day, we had dinner and started to wash our dishes. But as soon as the sun set, our neighbors began to light off fireworks. We would rush from what we were doing to catch a glimpse, only too often to find them done by the time we reached the right room and window. By about seven, there were enough fireworks that the booms became incessant. After twenty minutes of zipping about from room to room to catch the best view, the sight started to feel monotonous and we went about our night-time routine. I showered, picked up dirty clothes, and scrubbed the floor, all with an explosive soundtrack in the background. At eight, we made some dessert and watched the CCTV “Spring Festival Gala” on T.V. (More on that another day) Around nine, three boxes of mortars, each spaced a block apart were going off on a street parallel to our building. We watched for a while, but decided we were pretty cold in the corner room and retreated to the bedroom. By ten, we were so jaded we would peek out at fireworks only from our bedroom, and only if they were particularly close. Around eleven, with the peppering of sound in the background, my wife fell soundly asleep. We joked about her ability to sleep through anything. She only lasted about thirty-five minutes.
I was working on my computer and didn’t notice at first, until a particularly close set of sharp firecrackers sent my eyes to the clock. I knew that midnight was said to be something special; it was around 11:20 and I returned to my work. Then the booming started in earnest, and I looked out the window and saw a complex a mile away beginning to launch some larger fireworks. Across the ensuing minutes, they come closer and louder. By 11:40, the crescendo was unmistakable and a glance out the window revealed three mortars firing at once. My wife woke up and I started trying to convince her to go outside. Like instruments joining the melody of some triumphant symphony, every moment brought another firing to the array of sight and sound. Each minute seemed to compound with explosions in a new range or register. By 11:50, there were six, seven, eight distinct displays occurring simultaneously. Greens, blues, reds and whites lit the sky near and far. Whistles, pops, bangs, booms, sizzles, resounded with precisely what they were: a percussion section composed entirely of explosives, ignited independently by hundreds of individuals, their sound somehow unified only by their steadily increasing numbers. By 11:56, we headed out to our balcony.
Outside, the symphony had become a maelstrom, a hurricane of sight and sound. Within and beyond our complex, there were more fireworks exploding than we could possibly witness. Each slight turn of the head revealed at least a half-dozen different blossoms of fire. Below us, residents were lighting off strings of firecrackers that seemed to combine into an endless stream of pops. As midnight approached, the fury of the fireworks grew impossibly more intense until it seemed that every building near and far was bathed in showers of color. Fireworks fit to entertain whole cities were being launched between buildings not thirty yards apart. Embers would collide with the side of our twenty story towers and bounce or slide down. Shorter buildings in the distance were surrounded by streams of colored fire.
Soon, we saw a mortar being set up directly below our balcony and scurried inside for cover. We dashed from room to room, seeing and feeling ourselves immersed in the explosions going on above, below, near and far. Our office, the very corner room with the best windows, presented a dizzying array of spectacles. No sooner had we settled there, than a shower of sparks and explosions right outside our window drew us back to the bedroom. As we lay on our bay window shelf, the fireworks were exploding not ten feet above us, so bright as to seem dangerous just to watch.
Once they finished, we again found ourselves running from room to room to catch the best displays. Smoke leaked into our sealed apartment and seemed to envelope the city outside. By 12:15, the decrescendo had begun. Booms near and far, high and low began to fall away, never concluding. One lone resident, with a simply massive cannon of sparks, smoke and sound, offered something of a finale, sending his loudest of booms out across the neighborhood every minute or two. Even now, as I write this two hours later, the fireworks are still echoing on. Every four or five minutes a lone series of booms or a string of pops splits the night.
Happy New Year!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
CHANGED
As our president said it, change has come to America. Change has come for Americans the world over. Even those Americans staying up until 2AM, watching a tiny four-inch diagonal video feed on their computer screen, sitting at a cold table in Shanghai, China.
I am changed because for the first time in my adult life, I can take pride in who I am and where I am from. Living abroad, amongst students and teachers from dozens of countries, I have never had a greater sense of being an American. Yet I have also been made ever more fully aware of the complete idiocy of our recent policies and behaviors. Within America, all the grand divisions and minute sub-denominations of our society seem so pressing. Abroad, you are either American or you are not. I am American, like it or not. For eight long years, I have not liked it.
Yet, tonight –or this morning— we have again put a man on the moon. I stayed up tonight because witnessing a person of color take the oath of office is a moment no less awe-inspiring than that of the Apollo mission. It is an event that must been seen live to be truly appreciated and celebrated. It is, in fact, more tremendous than a moon landing. This time our national triumph was not earned by the strength of our science nor the prowess of our industry but by the simple power of our vote, the private decision of tens of millions of ordinary individuals. More than any other attainment in our history, this is a victory of the American people.
I am changed by the chance to take part in that victory. I am changed by the faith it renews in our democracy, the hope and pride it reconnects to our country's name. I am changed by the acceptance of what it means for "my people," both in this generation and every one to follow. Most of all, I am changed by the new belief that service rendered in the name of American society will not be futile strokes against a tide of corruption and everlasting injustice. Led by a president we believe in, we can believe in what we do.
We have made real progress today. America has changed.
I am changed because for the first time in my adult life, I can take pride in who I am and where I am from. Living abroad, amongst students and teachers from dozens of countries, I have never had a greater sense of being an American. Yet I have also been made ever more fully aware of the complete idiocy of our recent policies and behaviors. Within America, all the grand divisions and minute sub-denominations of our society seem so pressing. Abroad, you are either American or you are not. I am American, like it or not. For eight long years, I have not liked it.
Yet, tonight –or this morning— we have again put a man on the moon. I stayed up tonight because witnessing a person of color take the oath of office is a moment no less awe-inspiring than that of the Apollo mission. It is an event that must been seen live to be truly appreciated and celebrated. It is, in fact, more tremendous than a moon landing. This time our national triumph was not earned by the strength of our science nor the prowess of our industry but by the simple power of our vote, the private decision of tens of millions of ordinary individuals. More than any other attainment in our history, this is a victory of the American people.
I am changed by the chance to take part in that victory. I am changed by the faith it renews in our democracy, the hope and pride it reconnects to our country's name. I am changed by the acceptance of what it means for "my people," both in this generation and every one to follow. Most of all, I am changed by the new belief that service rendered in the name of American society will not be futile strokes against a tide of corruption and everlasting injustice. Led by a president we believe in, we can believe in what we do.
We have made real progress today. America has changed.
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