Memories: Beautiful girls, smart kids, touts
By Petter Lidbeck |
November 20, 2012, Tuesday
|
Print Edition
Print Edition
MY first memory of Shanghai is the fantastic washing machine in my hotel room. I'm more of a housewife than a writer, the writing is just a profitable hobby. So the washing machine made me feel right at home. I could wash my clothes and write while listening to it tumble.
My second memory is that of beautiful Chinese women. They're all over. My neck hurts from turning for two months to see them.
Then there's the strange food.
I've eaten duck's tongue, jelly fish and silk caterpillars. And I've swallowed it all down with an unbelievable amount of beer, probably more each night than an average Chinese writer drinks in a year.
I'll remember the uncertainty between expats passing each other outside in the former French concession, or any expat ghetto: There's another Westerner. Should I nod? No, why should I? Or should I? I shouldn't, right? Or? Maybe better. Yes. No. Or?
Then one nods, the other looks away, the drama continues: That scumbag didn't nod back. Who does he think he is?
I'll remember walking along Nanjing Road E. and meeting touts every 50 meters.
"Watches?" "No."
"Personal shopping?" "Please."
"Ah, massage." "No."
"Lady massage." "No, no."
"Beautiful Chinese ladies." "Thank you, but no."
I'll remember the noodle shop on the corner, the people in Zhongshan Park. I'll remember the two beggars.
First an old gentleman who speaks perfect English. He's over 80, very fit. He used to be an engineer and has a successful son in Australia. After 10 minutes he asks whether I have any money.
"Money?" "Yes, some coins."
I think he'll show me a magic trick so I hand him a coin.
"One yuan," he says. "You have more."
I realize he's not going to show me a trick, he wants money.
"I know you got more," he says. "One yuan? Come on."
Then he starts mocking me.
"But why should I give you my money?" I ask.
"Because you're rich and I'm not," he says.
Maybe so. But what about his son in Australia? And my daughter in Sweden? Anything I have left goes to her. So I walk away.
Smart kids
Just to find a man dressed as a businessman and asking for cab fare outside the hotel. He's lost his wallet and he's in a hurry. Could I possibly help him?
If he had asked for Metro fare, I would gladly help. Cab, no. When I leave the hotel two hours later he's still running his scam, knowing a man in a suit is more likely to get help than a poor guy in rags.
I'll remember the smart kids at the Shanghai World Foreign Language Middle School. They scared me. They spoke better English than most English. (I comforted myself with the Swedish expression "snapping kids," meaning that if anyone is that bright early on, it won't last. They'll snap.)
I'll remember the women dancing on the street corners in the mornings and in the evenings. What a perfect way to start and end each day.
I'll remember the embarrassing Chinese TV interview with me after Mo Yan got the Noble Prize. Someone stuck a microphone at me and I stood there like the dumb ass I am, saying "Mo who?"
I'll remember the fantastic afternoon in the home of our colleague Mr Tian Yongshan, who was born in the north, lived much of his life in the south but liked Shanghai best because it was so tolerant. Tolerance. An even better word than harmony.
I'll remember crashing a party at the Swedish Consulate with my Swedish colleague Zac.
Then bumping into the consul general two days later on Fuxing Road. She was jogging, Zac and I were staggering home after our daily cocktail hour.
I'll remember nights out with wonderful, witty and smart colleague Sun Wei.
I'll remember the fantastic hospitality all over China. In Beijing, in Hangzhou, in Yingtan, in Yujiang and the fantastic city of Shanghai.
I can't remember having felt as welcomed anywhere else in the world. And I'm pretty well traveled.
My second memory is that of beautiful Chinese women. They're all over. My neck hurts from turning for two months to see them.
Then there's the strange food.
I've eaten duck's tongue, jelly fish and silk caterpillars. And I've swallowed it all down with an unbelievable amount of beer, probably more each night than an average Chinese writer drinks in a year.
I'll remember the uncertainty between expats passing each other outside in the former French concession, or any expat ghetto: There's another Westerner. Should I nod? No, why should I? Or should I? I shouldn't, right? Or? Maybe better. Yes. No. Or?
Then one nods, the other looks away, the drama continues: That scumbag didn't nod back. Who does he think he is?
I'll remember walking along Nanjing Road E. and meeting touts every 50 meters.
"Watches?" "No."
"Personal shopping?" "Please."
"Ah, massage." "No."
"Lady massage." "No, no."
"Beautiful Chinese ladies." "Thank you, but no."
I'll remember the noodle shop on the corner, the people in Zhongshan Park. I'll remember the two beggars.
First an old gentleman who speaks perfect English. He's over 80, very fit. He used to be an engineer and has a successful son in Australia. After 10 minutes he asks whether I have any money.
"Money?" "Yes, some coins."
I think he'll show me a magic trick so I hand him a coin.
"One yuan," he says. "You have more."
I realize he's not going to show me a trick, he wants money.
"I know you got more," he says. "One yuan? Come on."
Then he starts mocking me.
"But why should I give you my money?" I ask.
"Because you're rich and I'm not," he says.
Maybe so. But what about his son in Australia? And my daughter in Sweden? Anything I have left goes to her. So I walk away.
Smart kids
Just to find a man dressed as a businessman and asking for cab fare outside the hotel. He's lost his wallet and he's in a hurry. Could I possibly help him?
If he had asked for Metro fare, I would gladly help. Cab, no. When I leave the hotel two hours later he's still running his scam, knowing a man in a suit is more likely to get help than a poor guy in rags.
I'll remember the smart kids at the Shanghai World Foreign Language Middle School. They scared me. They spoke better English than most English. (I comforted myself with the Swedish expression "snapping kids," meaning that if anyone is that bright early on, it won't last. They'll snap.)
I'll remember the women dancing on the street corners in the mornings and in the evenings. What a perfect way to start and end each day.
I'll remember the embarrassing Chinese TV interview with me after Mo Yan got the Noble Prize. Someone stuck a microphone at me and I stood there like the dumb ass I am, saying "Mo who?"
I'll remember the fantastic afternoon in the home of our colleague Mr Tian Yongshan, who was born in the north, lived much of his life in the south but liked Shanghai best because it was so tolerant. Tolerance. An even better word than harmony.
I'll remember crashing a party at the Swedish Consulate with my Swedish colleague Zac.
Then bumping into the consul general two days later on Fuxing Road. She was jogging, Zac and I were staggering home after our daily cocktail hour.
I'll remember nights out with wonderful, witty and smart colleague Sun Wei.
I'll remember the fantastic hospitality all over China. In Beijing, in Hangzhou, in Yingtan, in Yujiang and the fantastic city of Shanghai.
I can't remember having felt as welcomed anywhere else in the world. And I'm pretty well traveled.
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