artsy fartsy, hoity-toity, and all those other highfalutin words

[warning: personal invective against high society follows; read at your own discretion]

A couple friends and I attended a session of the Shanghai International Literary Festival last Sunday. The session was titled "Beauty and the Cultural Revolution: China Travels." The email blurb promised: "the author of Shanghai Girl Gets All Dressed Up relates her tales of traveling in China during the Cultural Revolution."
Despite the fact that the author had an extremely non-Chinese-sounding name, I still held out hope that she might provide some firsthand insight into Chinese culture and society during that dark period of their history. After all, if she'd traveled extensively around the country during that time, then surely she could discuss common social practices of the era or Communist propaganda that she observed. Or maybe she could provide an analysis of the impact of the government's policies on those she met during her travels.
I imagined that I would be but one of many in the audience who wanted to learn about a part of history that I was not taught in school. I also imagined that the lot of us would be joined by academics and historians eager for a new perspective on the Revolution or, perhaps, a few political activists searching for validation.
Instead, my friends and I intruded upon a veritable country club of pastel-colored expat wives and pompous businessmen sipping cocktails at three in the afternoon. My friends and I were clearly underdressed for the occasion (how were we to know the dress code for the book talk was Martha's-Vineyard-casual?), but it wasn't just this that made us uncomfortable. Even more noticeably, we were the only three Chinese in the room. In the heart of Shanghai, in the middle of the day, at an international literary festival, we were the only people of color there.
The speaker proceeded to make us regret our attendance even more. Not only did she fail to teach us anything about the Cultural Revolution, but she spent half the time name-dropping people she'd met, known, or otherwise had some connection to at the time – Jane and Audrey Meadows, George Bush Sr., the wife of Zhou Enlai – and the other half displaying her own ignorance and a profound bigotry against the Chinese. Every Chinese person she mentioned was either a "fierce" Red Guard or a layperson whose behavior was so ridiculous as to be the subject of a joke in her speech – a joke heartily appreciated by her white and privileged audience members. Only one Chinese person she mentioned acted nobly – unexpectedly offering her and her travel companion tea on a long voyage – but she used this anecdote to demonstrate her own moral education ("never assume") rather than to shed any positive light on the Chinese population as a whole. And if you think this interpretation is born solely from my defensiveness - as a Chinese American - against racial prejudice, then consider this: throughout her speech, the author repeatedly referred to the shirt she was wearing as evidence of her originality and love of Chinese culture.
"I'm wearing a Chinese pillow cover," she proclaimed at the beginning of her talk, "You won't see anybody else wear a pillow case, but I had my dressmaker make a blouse out of this."
Her blouse was black with a square, colorful, pop art print of a Chinese woman in the middle.
"I bought it at Shanghai Tang. Isn't it great?"

little things

Several weeks ago, I was on the subway looking out the window, and it suddenly occurred to me that I no longer felt like a tourist. I felt like I'd traveled that section of the track countless times before, and it, like everything else, was now familiar and routine.
I know I've only just scratched the surface of all the things to be discovered and learned here. And I know that it will take some time to adjust to the more abstract and intangible differences. But somehow, in a matter of weeks, I've found a niche. I feel as if I've completely absorbed everything - at least everything superficial - that makes Shanghai unlike Austin. Very few things come as a shock to me anymore. And now it requires some effort to remember the little things that used to feel so big.

• People go to the grocery store in their pajamas: two-piece matching flannel sets and cushy slippers. The first time I saw somebody at the supermarket in that outfit, I thought he was sick and had come downstairs to grab something to eat. The next time I saw someone out and about in her pajamas, I thought maybe it was some fashionable trend, the new big thing. But he wasn't sick, and she wasn't trendy. They were just people in their pajamas at E-mart.
• People stare. I look like everybody else, so I'm sure that people aren't just staring at me. They stare from their sidewalk chairs as you walk down the street. They stare as you ride your bicycle past them on the road. They stare at you and even examine the contents of your grocery cart as you roll it down the produce aisle. It's more innocuous than vulgar gawking, but it's more critical than a mere gaze. I don't quite understand it yet.

There are, of course, still some things that I cannot get used to, though I don't know that it's culture shock any more than personal distaste.

• People spit. A lot. Everywhere you go, you'll hear it. It's not an I-just-ate-something-that-left-a-funny-taste-in-my-mouth spit. It's a juicy, deep-down-to-the-bottom-of-the-chest, phlegm-removing spit. And everywhere you look you see globs of said phlegm - on the sidewalk, on the stairs leading down to the subway, even on the floor of the bus.
• People do not wait. They do not wait for you to reach the elevator, though they saw you running before they hit the Close button. They do not wait in line. And as they cut in front of you, pushing you with their full body weight, they impatiently tell you to wait your turn. They do not wait their turn. They see you waiting for a taxi, walk two feet in front of you, and hail the next cab that comes. They also do not wait to eat; when their food comes, they dig in, though your food might come long after they're done with their meal. I don't mind this last one so much. That I see as a pure cultural difference, a difference of table manners. The rest of it, though, I see as inconsiderateness, and such behavior - as well as my annoyance at it - goes far beyond cultural differences.

More little things, crumbs if you will, to be shared as they come to mind...

heading underground

Another eventful weekend in the pearl of the Orient. Friday night was dinner with my old roommate down in Xintiandi, a commercial neighborhood favored by expats and wealthy locals, well known for its bars and its Shikumen architecture (grey brick homes with stone-carved doorways). We had superbly overpriced Chinese food at a restaurant in the area (with thanks to my roommate's company, who footed the bill), then headed - courtesy of a drunk, high, sleepy, and/or insane taxi driver who weaved his way through empty streets and drove straight through a construction site - to a wine bar downtown. We met some of my roommate's acquaintances there, but unfortunately they included a couple of particularly obnoxious Americans. It was the first time I've seen evidence of the behavior that people from other countries often associate with my fellow citizens.
Saturday brought some better company. First I had brunch with a couple of the nomads I met last weekend. Through them, I met the handful of Southeast Asians with whom I spent the rest of the day. We went after brunch to the Shanghai Botanical Gardens to see the plum blossoms, which are especially colorful during February and March. The gardens were in, as the Singaporeans say, "Wulu", or, as some Americans say, "B.F.E.". All the way across town from where I live, which admittedly, is at the other end of nowhere. Still, the trip was worth the travel, as 15 kuai admitted us to a large park filled with dozens of different types of flora - and freshly mowed grass that we could actually touch. (I was considering dropping to the ground and sprawling myself across the grass since I have so little chance to do so here, but after a later discussion with some friends, I realized it's a good thing I didn't because it's true that people will hawk and spit just about anywhere.) So, on that lovely image, we made our way to the plum blossoms, which were indeed in full yellow and pink bloom. There weren't too many trees, but if you stood in the middle of it all, you could almost feel like you were surrounded by the silky flowers in a forest of spring colors - dotted occasionally by the bolder red of cherry blossoms. Earlier at lunch, my friends had argued whether plum blossoms actually turn into plums, or if the plums grow from some other part of the tree. Nobody had seen plums in nature, so we couldn't agree on an answer. Does anybody out there know?
A few hours later, we made our way to the main attraction of the night - the opening of a new underground music warehouse. If you're not familiar with Chinese pop music, it's hard to explain why this event was so exciting. Basically, though, most popular Chinese music is what some would refer to as bubble gum pop. For example, I'm told one of the most popular songs right now is called Kissy, sung by two young Britney Spears equivalents, with incredibly intelligent lyrics like "kissy kissy kissy kissy" and "la la la la la". Underground music here therefore refers to anything that goes beyond those hyper-cheerful, sugar-coated dance tracks or trite, melancholy love songs sung by semi-talented and boringly attractive men who make adolescent girls swoon. Alt, indie, or folk rock, punk, experimental, and electronica are all out of the mainstream and so are found underground. Clearly, then, the opening of this music warehouse was a gift for the musically deprived.
We arrived late to the show, in time for what I assume was the last of several bands to play. The place was quite literally in a warehouse, tucked away down several small, dark alleys, the door lit by one strong light bulb hanging overhead. The walls were concrete, two sides covered in framed photographs of recent gigs and the others bare concrete. I guessed that no more than 150 people had squeezed their way into this hole, but surprisingly the crowd was fluid enough that we made our way practically to the front row within about 15 minutes. We weren't sure what to expect, or whether the music would be worth even our free entrance, but we were very pleasantly surprised. The band was called Tianmi de Haizi, or The Honeys in English. I prefer the more literal translation of their name: Sweet Child. In any case, their music made up for the name with a healthy display of original songwriting and alternative rock.
I didn't see any of the band's CDs available after the show, though others were for sale for 20-30 kuai a piece - legitimate copies, mind you. I'd never heard of any of the groups before, but I picked up a couple CDs just to give them a try. I've since listened to both and am duly impressed. One was Magical Mystery Tour by Crystal Butterfly, which through further research I have discovered is probably the oldest and most popular rock group in Shanghai. This particular CD sounds like British pop rock with an injection of electrified, traditional Chinese harmonies. The other CD I bought is the self-titled album by a group called Godot. The music, as befitting the name, is experimental, instrumental, and passes from lounge to techno to grunge electric in a style that reminds me very much of Café Tacuba on the brilliant Reves.
When I was in Beijing and Hong Kong, I never learned to appreciate Chinese music; everything I heard sounded like an imitation of itself or of Aqua. But now I'm discovering that Shanghai has quite an exciting, though small, music scene; I just have to go underground to find it. Friday I'm back at the warehouse for Cold Fairyland - a mixed-genre fusion of modern and traditional instruments. Can't wait!

up where the air is clear

This past Sunday morning started out gray and drizzly. Some nomads I'd never met before had invited me to go kite flying with them, and I half expected a phone call to cancel the fun. But, the weather report promised blue skies in the afternoon, and it delivered a perfect 10.
At 1:30 I made my way to the Science and Technology Museum metro stop in Pudong. Pudong is to the east of the river that divides Shanghai; Puxi is to the west. Puxi is where most everybody lives, but Pudong lays claim to the Shanghai skyline, expat living, and clean, open spaces. This particular metro stop had two exits that opened up into a large, tiled square. Flat, public areas aren't easy to come by in Shanghai, so the square was filled with skateboarders and rollerbladers, most of whom I assumed were regulars. As I waited for my company to arrive, I watched teenage skateboarders doing tricks on the steps to the metro entrance and little toddlers learning to rollerblade. Hands behind their backs, oversized helmets on their heads, in perfect form and unison, they methodically pushed one foot back, then the other, and looked like a line of too-wise-for-their-age turtles making their way across the street.
Though I'd never seen them before, I recognized the nomads immediately; it's not often I see such a large and diverse group of young people hanging around together here. They included a few Chinese, a Singaporean or two, a couple Estonians, an Austrian, and a Turkish-American. Together we headed over to Century Park, the largest green area in Shanghai and conveniently within walking distance of the metro.
I don't think we ever actually made it into the park, though. We ran into this old man who flies his kite on the bridge to Century Park every weekend. He uses a metal, wheel-like contraption to spool his wire string (it needs to be strong to fight the wind) and meditatively walks forwards and backwards to keep his kite afloat up to 900 meters away. He was kind enough to show us how it worked and let us fly (and lose) some of his kites, but after two people got cut by the kite strings and a few others got worn out struggling with the strong winds, most of us petered out and played some Frisbee instead.
I'm an extremely inexperienced Frisbee player, and for the first 30 minutes usually a very bad one as well, but the group was extremely welcoming and patient with all newcomers. At any one time there were 8 or 10 of us in a circle on the bridge, trying to avoid hitting – usually successfully – the passersby who included: kite sellers, kite buyers, a wedding party, lovebirds, families with young children, a number of foreigners – some with Chinese companions, one of whom told her friend quite confidently that I was Japanese – pet owners out walking their dogs, and silly, inexperienced rollerbladers who got a strange thrill out of rolling down the l5 degree slant on the bridge. One guy hurtled unsteadily past us, victoriously reached the straightaway without falling, and then promptly threw his legs out from under him and landed flat on his bum. We had some random Chinese folks join in on the Frisbee-playing, as well as some small children and a few dogs, too. It was all good fun, and the sun moved steadily towards the horizon so that by the time we left, it was already 5:30 and nearly dusk.
Most of the group went to dinner with the kite man, but a few of us went for coffee instead before going our separate ways. We went to a Mediterranean-style café/bar called Barbarossa near People's Square in the middle of town. It sits on a little man-made island and is tucked away from all the hustle and bustle by some trees and a rather peaceful park. We sat on embroidered cushions, flipped through a shisha menu, and sipped illy coffee, and I was reminded how easy it is in Shanghai to forget that you're in China.
After coffee, I met up with an old high school roommate of mine who's here in Shanghai on a month-long work assignment. We decided it's been 7 years since we've seen each other, so it really was quite a treat to get to spend the evening with her. She's Bangladeshi, studied and works in London and so has a thick British accent, and got a degree in Chinese literature and so speaks Chinese fluently. We met up at Xiangyang Market, otherwise known as the knock-off market, where my friend wanted to buy some cheap, warm, winter wear. I usually find trips to Xiangyang with friends entertaining because the peddlers can be quite aggressive and usually pass me up for my foreign-looking companions. It was especially entertaining this time, though, because my friend could hold her own in Chinese and is quite a decent bargainer as well. I worked up an appetite just watching her bargain, so we looked for the closest non-fast-food sit-down restaurant and ended up at what we thought was a typical Chinese restaurant but which we found out was supposedly French cuisine, complete with "horse d'oerves." After dinner my friend struggled to decide whether she wanted a $10 manicure, but we settled on coffee and dessert at a nearby coffeeshop instead. One lychee-flavored jelly drink and a couple chocolate waffles later, I was perfectly content and tired after the most eventful Sunday of my stay thus far.