ChinaStoriesPlus

NOT BEING LOST

Kay and I landed in Beijing a day before our tour group. China Focus had booked a room for us at the hotel the tour would be staying in and had even supplied directions from the airport to the hotel in Chinese. The Jiangxi Hotel was located some distance from the city center, between the forth and fifth highway rings. Open for only one month, it had, shall we say, yet to be discovered.
We arrived at the hotel in the late afternoon. The lobby was empty. The restaurant just off the lobby was empty. There was no one checking in or checking out. There wasn’t a soul in sight except us and the neatly attired staff standing at their stations awaiting our approach. The assistant manager wore a black suit, the concierge, cashier, registration clerk and bell captain classic hotel uniforms.
“Good afternoon,” the assistant manager said. The staff nodded and repeated the greeting in unison. Everyone smiled cheerfully. We presented our passports and were on our way to our room – followed by the bellman and our bags – within minutes.
After a nap, we came down for dinner. There were only half dozen or so diners in the restaurant. Assuming that we would be eating Chinese three meals a day for two weeks, Kay ordered pasta with a Bolognese sauce, I a breaded cutlet. We’d heard that Chinese wine left something to be desired, so we both ordered beer. The first bottle was opened and poured carefully into Kay’s glass. Opening the second bottle proved more difficult, and after both our waiter and waitress had failed to do so, a supervisor was called. They seemed very embarrassed, so we tried not to watch the struggle. The beer was taken away and our waiter returned with a wide smile and open bottle. He poured, just a beer is supposed to be poured: a steady stream in the center of the glass. The head rose. The pouring continued. The beer overflowed. More embarrassment and lots of napkins followed. While we waited, we listened to the grand player piano serenade us with all-time Chinese favorites, like Rain Drop Keep Falling on My Head, Red River Valley, I Lost My Heart in San Francisco and Happy Birthday.
By the time our meals arrived, there was only one other table occupied, so we ate under the watchful attention of the entire wait staff. Both meals were very good.
The next day we decided to explore. In consultation with the assistant manager, who spoke English quite well, we located our hotel on the map and a destination, the Palace of Heavenly Peace. It would take around an hour each way, he told us. Perfect, we thought.
Well, not perfect. It is extremely difficult to navigate when the map and the street signs are written in Chinese. While refusing to confess to Kay that I had only the slightest idea of where we were, I devised the following strategies: identify a landmark, in this case a tall building with a ball on top; count streets, for instance, turn left at the fifth street after crossing the river; and refuse to believe that we were going to be lost our first day in China, never to be found.
While not being lost, we explored a local market and a neighborhood narrow street, along which mobile shops were set up. The seamstress shop was a foot-driven sewing machine on a table; the barber’s shop consisted of a chair, the bicycle repair shop was a box of tools, as was the shoe repair. Beside each shop was a bicycle, usually a three-wheeler, that had brought the shop and shopkeeper to the selected location. We didn’t see one non-Chinese person.
Eventually we reached our destination, where I realized that the Palace was on our tour, so we headed back. We got back to the hotel five hours after leaving. I’m still not sure how we did it. Kay is convinced that I have a global positioning device implanted in my head. I think I was very lucky.


THE GREAT TP CAPER

According to the China Focus website, we would be lodged in a four-star hotel each night. And the Jiangxi Hotel is a four-star hotel - in almost every way. One of the ways the hotel isn't a four-star hotel falls under the category of insufficient toilet paper supply. Our room came supplied with one very, very small roll of TP. When I say small, I mean that all the actual toilet paper could be put into the tube with room to spare. And, horror of horrors, there was no backup.
This situation came to my attention when we returned from our wanderings. The room had been made up, but the roll of toilet paper – which was now down to a few squares – had not been replaced. This is not a situation one wants to confront, especially when traveling in a foreign country eating foreign food and drinking foreign water.
Hearing what I hopped would be a service cart in the corridor, I snatched the roll from the holder and stepped out. I saw the cart just a few doors away. I located the maid, showed her our roll, and indicated that we needed another. With a smile, she handed me another. Not knowing how to ask her for a backup, I stuck the roll into in my shirt pocket and returned to the room.
This could be a problem. Standing with my ear pressed to the room door in an effort to hear the service cart in the corridor didn’t seem very practical, and the prospect of sitting on the john waiting for room service to deliver a roll was not appealing.
Suddenly – desperation being the father of ingenuity - I had an idea. Each morning before leaving the hotel, I replaced our partially used roll with the empty tube. Not taking any chances, I carefully hid the partially used roll at the bottom of my suitcase. It worked. Each afternoon we received a full roll. By the time we left the Jiangxi Hotel we were a full roll and a half up! This is nothing to scoff at, as we had been informed that few public toilets – and most particularly on the trains – were supplied with TP.
We were not, of course, the only ones suffering TP rations, and soon a cry for more TP was raised, and by the second afternoon our guide had informed the hotel that Americans expected a spare roll. It is our right.
This situation does present several interesting questions. Is there a toilet paper shortage in China? Had the instructions – this was, after all, a new hotel and a newly trained staff - to supply every room with a backup roll somehow dropped through the cracks? Do Americans use more TP than the Chinese? Is it possible that Chinese hotels are reluctant to supply an extra roll because Chinese hotel guests, particularly those traveling by train, pilfer them? I fear that I shall never know.


Frank Li Speaking

Our first impression of Frank Li, our tour’s national guide, was that he was friendly, accessible and in charge. In his early forties, about five-ten, Frank had a wide smile, a shaved head and almost always wore a leather jacket.
As the tour’s national guide, Frank was with the group almost every waking hour, from airport landing to departure. Although we were joined by city guides in Beijing and Shanghai, Frank managed our transportation and ticketing, provided translations, explanations and kept us supplied with water. As the days passed, we discovered him to be a virtual Chinese Renaissance man: painter, collector, teacher, sheepdog, Confucian scholar, moneylender, musician and singer.
We spent a good deal of time on the motor coach, time Frank wasn’t going to let go to waste. Although his English was less than perfect and his accent often difficult to understand, he offered frequent lessons on a variety of subjects. Standing just behind the driver, microphone in hand, legs braced, Frank gave us short lectures on the Chinese language, calligraphy (with illustrations), history, driving restrictions (a license plate can sometimes cost more than the car), population control, Olympic preparations, customs, dress, etc.
One of the national guide’s most important duties is seeing to it that none of us gets lost. In short, playing the sheepdog. The task was never easy. “Meet back at this spot in 25 minutes, three o’clock.” At 3:05 the head count – and Frank was constantly counting heads – was inevitably short. I have no idea whether our group was more or less manageable than most groups - I’d never been on a tour before – but they was not inclined to play follow the leader when they could wander off for photos or shopping. For example: the walk from the bus parking lot to the entrance to the site we were visiting might be five to fifteen minutes. We would leave the lot as a group, all 31 of us plus Frank and his waving red flag. By the time we reached the entrance, we would be reduced to a dozen, with another dozen strung out in the distance, the last half dozen not to be seen. Off Frank would go to round them up.
Boarding the train was another matter. The bus could wait until we were reconvened; entrance into a palace could be delayed. But trains don’t wait. Getting our group through the massive crowd surrounding the entrance to the Beijing train station, then through the station to our train and then onto the correct car; and then later in Ji’nan, getting us off the train and through the station to our bus – well, no sheepdog could have done it better.
Unlike Beijing and Shanghai, we did not have a city guide for Qufu, where we visited Confucius’ Temple, Mansion and Forest. The guides are too young, Frank told us, and don’t understand Confucius as well as I do. During our stay in Tai’an and our tour of Qufu, Frank regaled us with stories of Confucius’ life, his importance to Chinese history, the meaning of his philosophy and quoted dozens of Confucius’ sayings. And no, I don’t mean the ones we giggled at in junior high. How about this: “He who learns, but does not think, is lost; he who thinks, but does not learn, is perilous.”
Because ATMs were few and far between, China Focus had recommended bringing traveler’s checks, which “can be easily exchanged at hotels and shops.” Not so! Within days, a number of people were low on funds, a few almost broke. So Frank became a moneylender. By Qufu, a week into the tour, frustration was spreading.
That morning Frank promised that he would find a place to change money by that afternoon. By noon, he’d located an international branch of the Bank of China on the outskirts of Qufu, which would open at one. Those who needed money were to join him on the bus immediately after lunch; others could explore the town. Although Kay and I had brought only cash, we were having trouble getting even that changed, so we joined the group.
It was quite an experience. Suffice it to say that as far as banking practices go, China is anything but modern. Photocopies were made of every passport and every traveler’s check, copies that were then checked and double-checked. Every American bill was closely examined. This manual process took well over an hour, but everyone who needed money had money.
Frank is a painter, and his card was actually a small brochure that showed examples of his work – traditional Chinese watercolors, waterfalls, fog-filled valleys, cherry blossoms, all beautifully done – along with photos of pieces from his pottery collection.
Frank’s artistry was not limited to the visual. While boating on the canal in Suzhou, the “Venice of the Orient,” Frank asked one of the boatmen to sing for us. He did, and afterwards, as the boat made its way through the narrow, house-lined canal, red lanterns and laundry hanging overhead, Frank sang.
After disembarking, and while walking back to the bus, one of our fellow travelers bought an erhu from a sidewalk vendor. This traditional Chinese bowed instrument has a long neck, two strings and a small sound box. Once on board, Frank asked if he could play it. “How much did you pay?” he asked. About two dollars, he was told. “Then don’t expect to much,” Frank joked. He proceeded to tune the instrument, then played several songs - quite well it seemed to me - describing each one, when it was written and what it was about. We were captivated. We were also a captured audience on a bus barreling down the highway. There was no stopping him now. Putting aside the erhu, he sang traditional folk songs, then arias from Chinese opera. While not a professional singer, he has a very nice voice and stayed on key (well, what do I know about Chinese keys, but it sounded right).
On our final night, during our final banquet, Frank had huge cakes presented to two couples, one celebrating an anniversary, the other a honeymoon. He also presented them with watercolors that he’d done that afternoon and dried with a hairdryer. The evening ended with another brief concert by Frank.
We didn’t get up to see the group off in the morning, but Frank called our room to say goodbye and to ensure us that we had breakfast coupons for our last breakfast. Later Kay discovered a folder had been slipped under our door. Inside were two 8x10 calligraphies. One was the calligraphy for the Yellow River (with a note: for Dear Kay, by Frank), the other the Great Wall (for Dear Boyce, by Frank).
Whatta Guy.

HOLD THAT TIGER

If it hadn’t been maintenance and inspection day on the gondola, the thing with the tiger wouldn’t have happened. It couldn’t have; we wouldn’t even have been at the tiger breeding facility. In fact — but perhaps I should begin at the beginning.
Our third stop on the tour was Tai’an, where we would stay for two days. According to the schedule, we would spend the first afternoon exploring the town on our own; the next morning we would take the cable car, or gondola, to the peak of Mt Tai, China’s holiest mountain, followed by a free afternoon. The next morning we were to travel to Qufu, home of Confucius. That evening we were to travel on an overnight train to Shanghai.
However (there has to be a however somewhere), the gondola up Mt. Tai was undergoing regularly scheduled inspection and maintenance – which was, in its own way, comforting. So our first full day we bused to Qufu, where we spent a very interesting day wandering the compound of temples built by Confucius’ disciples, his burial place was well as parts of the city. The next morning was spent at the top of Mt Tai. That left a long afternoon between lunch and our 10 p.m. train departure. We’d seen enough of Tai’an our first afternoon and were desperate for alternatives.
Tai’an, we found out, is home to a well-known tiger breeding facility. Observing tigers seemed a lot more interesting than shopping. There were a sufficient number of us interested, so Frank arranged for the bus to drive the fifteen or so of us, along with himself, to the city park where the tigers lived.
The zoo was a modest affair with a staff of two. There was a woman who sold tickets (about 30¢) and a woman who took your ticket and who, we discovered, fed the tigers. I shall call her the tiger lady. We were the only patrons.
Up the ramp we went, first by a large enclosure of monkeys, which we fed with peanuts the tiger lady gave us, then an “aviary” of sorts, occupied by peacocks and geese, which we entered and fed. Beyond that were the tigers.
The tiger portion of the zoo consisted of a raised, cement walkway enclosed by a chain link fence that wound through the tiger compounds. There were five separate areas, one holding two albino tigers, one a solitary tiger, three others with four to six tigers.
Frank asked the tiger lady if she would feed the tigers for us. No doubt bored out of her mind, she happily grabbed a bucket of chunks of raw meat and a very long fork, and joined us.
Watching her feed the tigers was exciting. She teased them by holding the softball-sized pieces of meat against the fence, then moving them around as the tigers tried to pull them through the fence. After a minute of so, she pushed the meat through the fence and the winning tiger quickly turned away to enjoy the fruits of its labor.
At some places, the walkway was no more than a foot or so above the ground; at other places five or six feet above. When fed at the low areas, the tigers loomed above us; they had to be nine feet tall when standing against the fence. At higher places, we looked into the tiger's eyes, face to face, their enormous heads no more than two feet from ours.
Eventually tiger lady gave out of meat or interest, and the feeding stopped. Everyone simply wandered along the walkways on their own. Kay and I walked out to an area where the walkway was just above ground level. As we watched, one of the tigers walked slowly towards us, his eyes locked into mine. When he reached the fence, eyes still on mine, his huge head only feet from mine, he growled, a deep, low rumble. I felt a chill go down my spine and stepped back. I looked away towards Kay.
“Even with the fence there, that’s really unnerving.”
Suddenly she screamed, then began sputtering as she wiped her face. “Oh my god,” she cried. “He sprayed me!”
I hadn’t seen it, but just as I looked towards Kay, the tiger had turned, raised his tail, and sprayed her with a foul smelling mixture of pee and tiger essence, enough essence, in fact, that a nearby fellow traveler had been sprayed on his clothes. Yes, my dear Kay had been marked. And I, it appeared, had been warned.
Fortunately, Kay carries Purell, a liquid cleanser and antiseptic, and within seconds she was scrubbing her face. Yes, Purell, you may use this testimony in your advertising: Been sprayed by a tiger? Try Purell, guaranteed to remove tiger stench from your skin.
Unfortunately, the change of schedule that allowed us a visit to the tiger facility also prevented us from returning to the hotel to shower and change. We’d checked out of our hotel that morning, our bags taken to the train station, and wouldn’t check into another hotel for more than 20 hours. Kay was able to wash out her favorite silk shawl, which was soaked and carried a most powerful aroma. But she would have to spend the rest of the afternoon, the evening, and the all night on the train, with the powerful aroma of tiger lust.
We received several excellent suggestions from our fellow travelers. One, that I would have to fight the tiger for Kay. Another was for Kay to sale her tiger balm-soaked shawl on E-Bay.
Needless to say, I did not fight the tiger and Kay did not sell her silk shawl. We do, however, have a travel’s story unlike any other: The Day in China when Kay was Chosen and Marked by a Tiger.



DOING THE LAZY SUSAN

We knew from the China Focus website that all meals were included, but the tour package included few details other than: “This tour includes one Western-style lunch.” “Tonight, enjoy a special Peking duck dinner.” (We might be in Beijing but we were eating Peking duck.) And “A special dinner banquet is planned for tonight.” As far as we were concerned, every meal was a banquet.
With only small variations, our meals each day were very similar. The breakfast buffet, always taken at the hotel, offered between 30 and 40 dishes. Some were familiar, boiled eggs (though the marinated boiled egg’s strange purple color made them less than appetizing), sausages links, once bacon, rolls and toasts. There was always a cook with frying pan and burner ready to cook eggs to your desire. Then there were 25 or more Chinese dishes, some recognizable, like fried rice and won tons, and some not. I enjoy trying unknown dishes but not at breakfast.
Lunch and dinner were the same. We sat at large, round tables that held ten people, with a four-foot lazy Susan in the middle. There were usually three or four appetizers on the table when we arrived. Within minutes, platters of food began arriving, one after another until the lazy Susan was filled. Once I counted twelve dishes.
Because the platters did not arrive at the same time, ten people serving themselves from ten dishes got pretty tricky. If there were only one or two dishes, it would be easy enough to simply slowly rotate the Susan until the food had gone all way around. Let’s say the Susan was rotating counter clockwise. Immediately after you’d replaced the serving spoon in the boney fish, steamed broccoli was placed on the other side of the now-departed fish, meaning that it was now nine people away. Meanwhile, across the table, someone who had missed the sautéed mushrooms tried to reverse the rotation, while someone else found themselves with the serving spoon to a dish which was now long gone. Once all ten or more platters had been delivered, the Susan was full; each platter had its place. So if you lifted a platter or bowl to serve yourself and the Susan rotated, you were left holding the platter with no place to put it. As you can see, meal times could be fraught with difficulty.
It took a few meals for a “lazy Susan etiquette” to evolve. It wasn’t perfect but it helped. Basically, all actions had to be announced to one’s fellow diners. “I’m taking soup now.” “Could you send the beans around?” It also helped to move the Susan very slowly.
Other than the “western-style lunch,” where burgers and salad were, along with the usual, available, and the Peking duck banquet, most meals were pretty similar. Rice, stir-fried vegetables, eggplant, fish with extra bones, sweet and sour something, fried tofu, and soup, which for some reason always came last. Once we had what I can only describe as lightly battered and fried knuckles, which no one could figure out how to eat. In Shanghai, after the acrobat show, the Schewan dinner included jellyfish balls and long, narrow strips of fried fish skins. Both were delicious.
It’s been almost two months since we last ate a Chinese meal. It’s not as though we don’t like Chinese food. Although some meals were better than others, we enjoyed every one. And why should eating twenty-two Chinese meals in eleven days be a problem? The Chinese eat Chinese food every day, day after day. A 60-year-old Chinese person has eaten over 65,000 Chinese meals. I guess we’re spoiled. We have so much variety in America, even more so in the San Francisco Bay area. To us, eating two Italian meals in two days, to say nothing of eating Italian meals back to back, would be unthinkable.
I’m sure we’ll be ready for Chinese again soon.


GETTING THERE IS HALF THE FUN

For the most part, most of our travel while with the tour was by motor coach. Motor coach sounds so much better than bus. But, whether motor coach or bus, there’s not too much one can say about it. They were comfortable, relatively new and the drivers were amazingly skilled.
Trains are more interesting. We traveled from Beijing to Ji’nan, a four and a half hour trip and an experience that reinforced our decision to see China with a tour. Imagine, if you will, reaching the Beijing train station alone. The station is enormous, as is the crowd, at least several thousand. And every one of them is attempting to squeeze into one door. Why? You don’t know. Are there other doors? How are you going to make your way through the throng? And once inside, how do you find your train?
“Stay together,” Frank cautioned us. “Follow the flag. Hold your place. Don’t let them push you around.”
Our baggage had been picked up the night before, so at least we didn’t have to deal with that. We followed the flag, allowed no one between us and the fellow traveler ahead, and kept pressing forward while ignoring the press and stares of Chinese all around us. Once inside, we regrouped, Frank did his headcount, and we headed to the boarding platform.
The train arrived. “Car eight,” Frank called out. Any seat from 30 to 62. The doors opened and we piled on.
The train was clean and modern, with a Chinese squat toilets at one end of each car, a western-style toilet on the other end. It arrived on time and departed on time. We were impressed.
Our second train journey was the overnight from Tai’an to Shanghai. This was a long day. After leaving our baggage in the lobby that morning, we toured Mt. Tai, China’s holy mountain, the tiger zoo, then the town. The train didn’t leave until ten, and we were exhausted.
On the way to the station, Frank read out each person’s car and compartment. There would be four to a sleeping compartment for the trip and we’d already paired up. We’d have only three minutes to board, Frank informed us, so be ready. They won’t wait.
We reached the station around 9:30 and waited. The station wasn’t nearly so crowded that time of night, but there were several hundred people in the waiting room. At twenty till ten we were still waiting. I was getting nervous. At quarter till, two uniformed agents arrived and began to set up a corridor of barriers to the door. At ten till they opened one door. I didn’t see how this crowd could funnel single file through the barrier and single door and then to the platform in ten minutes. But we did, and were on the platform with a couple of minutes to spare.
At one minute till ten the train entered the station. At ten the doors opened, an attendant stationed at each door. We all rushed on board. I think our entire group of 31 was in the corridor if not our compartments in around forty seconds.
The beds were narrow but comfortable; the bedding clean; the drinks and snacks we’d packed unnecessary. It had been a long day and everyone was asleep within the hour.
Our third train trip was from Shanghai to Hong Kong. We decided – we’d come this far, why not stay a bit longer – to take the train to Hong Kong. We’d ordered tickets on the Internet the month before; the tickets were to be delivered to our hotel in Shanghai, along with instructions to the taxi driver to take us to the appropriate train station. There are two.
We’d reserved a “deluxe sleeper,” which is to say a private compartment. Both beds were plenty wide and very comfortable. Once again, the bedding was clean, but this time we had two pillows apiece and a comforter. Underneath the small, window-side table was the large hot water thermos. At the end of the car, inside a small closet, there was a small water heater with a faucet, so there was always a supply of hot water to keep your thermos filled. The Chinese drink tea all day, quite often simply continuing to add hot water to the tea leaves.
We read, we played cribbage, we took dinner in the dining car, we watched the countryside – rice paddies, an occasional oxen, donkeys, villages, rivers, a solitary figure in the middle of a vast field hoeing - roll by. We slept like babies.
Our third means of transportation was by taxi. We’d taken a taxi from the airport to our hotel in Beijing – China Focus had provided us with directions to the hotel in Chinese. In fact, all hotels provide a card with the hotel’s name and address in Chinese so no matter where you are or how lost you are, you can get back. On the reverse side is a place for them to write your destination.
Other than a taxi ride from the zoo to the restaurant in Tai’an – directions provided by Frank – we’d had no need for a taxi until our last day in Shanghai. The group left early that morning and we had a day on our own to explore the city before training to Hong Kong. We decided to wander the French Concession, the area of the city controlled, actually owned, by the French during the later years of the 19th century. We went to the front desk to have our destination written down. Alas, for the first time, there was not one English speaker on duty. We tried to explain where we wanted to go, but no luck. One of our fellow travelers had visited the area and told us the major street, so we were able to point the street out on a map. He’d also told us how long the taxi ride should be and how much it should cost. The desk clerk got on the phone to an English speaker to whom Kay repeated our destination. She smiled and wrote on the back of our card. We then walked out to the street and hailed a cab. After a few minutes, one stopped and we climbed in and handed him the card. He looked at it very closely, then shrugged and handed it back. We pointed to the card. He shrugged and raised his hands, palms up, the international sign for, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” We got out of the cab.
Perhaps he can’t read well, we thought.
When the next cab stopped, we handed him the card through the window. He studied it closely, then gave the international sign for “I haven’t the slightest idea . . .”
We returned to the front desk, where I panamimed the taxi drivers’ response to the directions, which included, of course, the international sign for “I haven’t the slightest. . .” Our friendly desk clerk made another call, wrote a new set of directions, then led us out of the hotel and, along with a bellman, hailed a cab, showed him the directions, and waved us off. Soon, in considerably less time and half the fare that we’d been told, we were dropped off at another hotel. We got out, paid the driver, and looked around. We were sure we weren’t in the French Concession but other than that, we didn’t know where we were. After walking for a few blocks in what we thought was the right direction, we saw the Shanghai Museum. We also encountered two young Chinese women who spoke English to head us in the right direction. An hour later, we found ourselves in the French Concession. It was pleasant, but not worth the journey. We walked half way back to the hotel, then took a taxi.
Mounted to the back of the taxi’s front seats were taxi rules. If the driver overcharged, did not take the most direct route, refused to turn the radio down or off if requested, did not wear the official uniform (which often included gloves and hat), smoked, cursed or shouted at the passengers, the passenger was not required to pay the fare.
There were also rules for passengers. Passengers were forbidden to smoke, drink, spit, or throw things out the window. Those doing so would be ordered from the cab. The prohibition we found most interesting was the following: drunkards and mental patients must be accompanied by a guardian. I guess getting drunk without arranging for the presence of a guardian could result a long walk home.


BEING BARGAIN BAIT

I learned a number of things during our three weeks in China. China, at least in the cities, is rapidly loosing its past. For instance, in Shanghai we visited “China town,” an area of only a few square blocks, which is supposed to look like traditional China. This ongoing project, we were informed, required as much recreating of what was no longer there as protecting what was. So many of the old neighborhoods have been erased by the building boom - though one can agree that a 30-story apartment building makes more sense in a housing-starved nation than a row of two-story houses. Efforts to preserve at least a few neighborhoods were pointed out as our motor coach crisscrossed the cities we visited. But there’s so little left.
I also learned that the trains run on time, that sidewalk vendors are among the most aggressive in the world, and that I should not be allowed to bargain.
First, a word about shopping: Shopping is one of China’s main attractions, for locals as well foreign visitors. For many, great shopping is as important as the Great Wall. As one of our fellow travelers said, explaining her absence, along with a few others, that afternoon, “Why you were at the Temple of Golden Harmony, we were down the street at the Temple of Gucci.”
My ineptitude as a bargainer was demonstrated our first day in Beijing when Kay and I were surrounded by a half dozen hawkers at the entrance of a temple. Kay said no and walked away. I was surrounded.
“Beautiful guidebook,” one said, thrusting the book at me. “Only 100 Yuan.”
“Official Olympic baseball cap,” said another. “Good price.”
“You need watch,” said another. “Rolex, whatever.”
I didn’t need a watch and don’t particularly like baseball caps, but the book looked good. It was a nice book, but not worth 100 Yuan, roughly $13.
“Too much,” I said.
“How much you pay?” he replied. “How much. You say.”
“Eighty,” I said.
He thrust the book into my hands and held his out for payment. I was now the proud owner of a picture book of Beijing that I could have bought for a quarter of the asking price.
My next contribution to the Chinese economy took place the following day at Tian’anmen Square. The morning was chilly and foggy, unseasonably cold and we were cold. After walking across the vast expanse of the square, we were going to tour the Forbidden City, and I was anticipating a long, chilly morning.
Suddenly, out of the fog, emerged the hat sellers. I mean THE hat, you know, those fur hats with the earflaps and red star in the front, the kind the Chinese army guys wear in the movies. I tried one on. My head was instantly warm. I pulled down the flaps. My ears were instantly warm.
“Only 100 Yuan,” she said. “Best price.”
Wow, I thought, only $13. I was so pleased I forgot to bargain.
By the time our group reached Tian’anmen Gate, at least a half dozen of our group were decked out in hats. The price, Kay informed me, shaking her head in dismay, plunged after my initial purchase, with some getting theirs for $1.
My excuse – once I confessed to having a problem – was that I wasn’t prepared. It wasn’t as if I’d decided that I wanted a hat and how much I was willing to pay for it; I’d been approached (although confronted might be a better word) by sellers with an item I didn’t know I needed until it was thrust into my face. I hadn’t had a chance to prepare.
My last humiliation took place after leaving the forest where Confucius is buried. The walk from the parking area into the forest is lined with booths, most selling every conceivable trinket and bauble. I’d decided that I wanted a jade-colored container. About the size of a coffee mug but taller, the real jade ones were intricately carved but very expensive. But a glass one would make a nice souvenir and pencil holder.
“You don’t need it,” Kay said. “It’s not even pretty.”
I, exercising my rights as a man who will not be told what to do, turned back to the booth, bargained, and bought it.
“I got her down from eighty to forty,” I said proudly.
That night I examined by purchase. It wasn’t glass; it was plastic, and worth about 50¢, not the $5 plus I’d paid. Boy, I was really feeling stupid. I wrapped it in newspaper and left it by the trashcan. The next day on the bus, the hotel tried to return it to me. My fellow travelers looked at my purchase and then at me. How embarrassing.
We decided that I would do no more bargaining. If I saw something I wanted, I‘d tell Kay and she’d do the bargaining.
We spent the last afternoon of the tour at what is called the knock-off market in Shanghai. Almost every item in the two-story, city-block market carries a name brand. Some are copies, some the real thing, surplus, some smuggled out of the factories where they’re made. When we saw short sleeve shirts, Kay went into action. It was time to see the master at work.
“How much?” she asked.
“Two hundred sixty Yuan,” the lady said. “Best quality.” The label said Timberland and they were very nice. Kay shook her head.
“How much you pay?”
“One hundred for two.”
“No, no,” the woman cried. “For two shirts, one hundred each.”
Not only was the price too high, she didn’t have the colors I wanted in my size. Kay walked away.
To make a long story short, ten minutes we walked away with two shirts, one the sales lady had retrieved from another shop. Price, 100 Yuan for two. Kay also purchased two pashminas, originally priced at 200 Yuan, for 50 Yuan each, and instructed several of our fellow travelers on where and how to get the same price.
Our shopping day ended with the purchase of a few DVDs. We were browsing in a shop when the saleslady asked if we were interested in DVDs. We nodded. After looking up and down the hallway outside her shop (the Chinese government is at least going through the motions of a crackdown on pirated materials, and we saw one shop being busted that day), she opened a hidden door and quickly took us into a narrow space lined with DVD and CD loaded shelves. Just released movies were prominently featured. We bought a couple for our grandson and a couple for us. The price: $1 each.
In Hong Kong we shopped at the famous Stanley Market on the backside of Hong Kong Island, a virtual warren of tiny shops offering almost everything you ever wanted for less than you ever dreamed. The big challenge here is to NOT buy everything you ever wanted, unless (as some of our fellow travelers did in Shanghai) one of the things you wanted was an extra suitcase.
Our last shopping venture was one of the most enjoyable and surely one of the most surprising: the night market in Kowloon. It was, as luck would have it, only a few blocks from our hotel. The night market covers about eight, very crowded blocks. The street is filled with canvas booths, leaving only a narrow passageway down the center. Every block had at least one “street restaurant,” lines of long tables with food being delivered from nearby restaurants. It drizzled the night we walked the market, but still the crowd was so thick that we couldn’t move. We bought a few gifts – Kay did all the bargaining - ate dinner at one of the street restaurants and enjoyed the show.
A last lesson: shopping in China is not so much about the loot as the looking. It’s part of the experience.


UNEXPECTED PLEASURES

Every trip offers unexpected pleasures as well as unforeseen mishaps. China was no exception, except that there were no mishaps, which can probably be attributed to the fact that we were – at least for 10 of 18 days – with a tour. Being on a tour drastically reduces the possibilities of missing your train, boarding the wrong bus or discovering that the town’s hotels are filled.
The grandest unexpected pleasures I call special moments. Not a very imaginative definition, but there it is. I can’t change it now. For me, special moments are unexpected. For instance, after walking all afternoon, you come across a small plaza. You’re tired and sit at an outdoor café. As you sip a glass of cold white wine, the late afternoon light changes from bright yellow to soft gold. A street musician plays an accordion. A beautiful woman strides by. This, my friend, is a special moment, something you can neither anticipate nor plan.
Now seeing the Great Wall, for instance, is another kind of pleasure. You know it’s going to be great before you get there. No surprise, no goose bumps.
We encountered our first unexpected pleasure at the Temple of Heaven in Beijing. To reach the temple, we walked through a lovely park, a park brimming with activity. Two things were immediately apparent: everyone in the park could be described as a “senior” (the retirement age in China is 50 and 55, depending on what kind of work you do, the reason being that there is a long queue of workers waiting for your job). And second, every one of them was doing something, ballroom dancing, mock sword fighting, ribbon dancing and an activity that combined moves not unlike Tai Chi but with a large paddle and ball. Along a long, covered corridor, groups of people played mai jong, dominoes and cards, all to the accompaniment of various musical groups: a woman’s chorus singing Chinese opera, a small group of men playing traditional Chinese instruments, a small group playing something akin to a kazoo. Just over the railing a large crowd stood listening to a harmonica band.
We could have lingered for hours, but we had to stay on schedule and stayed for only 45 minutes. The temple was grand and glorious and awe inspiring, just as you would expect it to be.
Our next surprise took place upon our arrival in Ji’nan. Frank had announced during the four-hour train trip from Beijing that we would be met at the station by a “heavy metal band.” This announcement brought a smile but no expectations. And there was no band. On the bus from the station to our hotel, Frank attributed the absence of the band at the station to the crowds. They’ll be at the hotel for sure, he said. And they were. The band, a conductor and approximately 15 women dressed in red and gold Chinese suits, filled the area by the hotel entrance. A long banner – Welcome China Focus – stretched alongside. The women pounded on large drums and crashed cymbals (the heavy metal). After a couple of numbers, they invited us to join them. Soon members of our troupe were pounding drums and beating cymbals, while others formed a conga line that snaked through the area in the twilight. It was quite a sight.
Our next memorable moment took place our first morning in Ji’nan. Before venturing out to view the Yellow River (a wide, muddy river viewed through nasty air), we visited one the many springs the city is famous for. There were hundreds of people, some sitting on the huge rocks which enclosed the spring-fed waterway, others filling buckets with the “good luck” water to take home.
As we wandered around, we encountered a large group of young people. This, we were informed later, was the English Corner, where every Sunday students came to practice their English – not on native speakers but on each other. For us to be there was welcome surprise, for us as well as them. Within minutes, each of us was surrounded by a half dozen or more young Chinese eager to talk – about anything, just talk. And we did. They spoke very well and seemed to have little if any difficulty understanding us, even me.
Unfortunately, we had only 20 minutes or so before the bus left, so our conversations were short. This was another occasion when the schedule dictated by the tour is a drawback.
The Shanghai Acrobatic Show doesn’t qualify as a special moment because high expectations already existed. But it did serve as the first act of a highly enjoyable evening. After we’d watched 12 girls ride a bicycle, contortionist, acrobats, a man juggling atop a stack of chairs, a woman on a unicycle tossing saucers, plus cup and spoon, with one foot onto head, and five motorcyclist race simultaneously inside an oval cage, we went to dinner. This particular restaurant had a dinner show featuring four of five scantily-clad dancing girls doing routines that encompassed the best of go-go dancing and basketball cheerleader moves. Wow. There I was in a Chinese nightclub drinking Chinese beer, eating jellyfish balls and watching what could have been the girls from Shanghai Hooters. It wasn’t a special moment, I remember thinking to myself, but it was an evening unlikely to be repeated.
Our last special moment came when we took the ferry from Kowloon, where we were staying, to Hong Kong Island, then another ferry to Lamma, a nearby island. Other than small service vehicles, no cars or trucks are allowed on Lamma. We landed at a small village, Yung Shue Wan, ate lunch in a waterfront restaurant, then hiked up and across the island to another small village, Sok Kwu Wan, about an hour away. We saw only a handful of walkers. As we descended to Sok Kwu Wan, we stopped and looked out over the hillside and down to the small harbor filled with sampans and fishing boats. There wasn’t a person in sight. The only sounds were the birds and a boat on the harbor. It was a special moment.
Then we continued on to the village and had a beer near by ferry wharf. The next day we flew home. It was a hell of a trip.