Moonlit picnic and Shanghai memories
October 16, 2012, Tuesday
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Print Edition
Print Edition
TO Zvetla I gave a bamboo bag from the Yu Garden. Inside I put shampoo samples and a comb. To Zdravka I gave my tourist guide because she wandered aimlessly. She would say, "Today I will take Metro Line 11, count six stops and get off. If it's not interesting, it doesn't matter, I walk around anyway."
To Ran, I gave gift certificates for massage and dim sum and all my Shanghai food magazines because we both liked massages and food. I remember her in the massage chair, eyes closed, with a smile on her beautiful, collected Korean face. In the dim light of the parlor, her face resembled the moon.
Ran's present to me before I left Shanghai was a picnic at Zhongshan Park. It was my last evening, a very special one. Almost a full moon, bluish clouds and the smell of early autumn in the air.
We sat on towels and Ran made a beautiful arrangement of handmade kimpa, kimchi and Korean pizza. I brought Mongolian buns with bean curd, French chocolate cake and beer. Zdravka brought cherry tomatoes and bananas. She gave us small wooden flasks of Bulgarian rosewater perfume. She said if we made a wish and put the bottle under our pillow, our wish would come true.
As we sat by the lake, night fell and lights around the lake went on. The bridge was lit so that its curve was perfectly reflected in the water below, creating a full circle, a kind of magical ring.
That ring reminded me of Zdravka's story about our little finger, the pinky, called the writer's finger in Bulgarian. If writers wore it while writing, the good stories would come to them. I loved the idea that stories were forms of deep wishes materialized. I bought a ring in Zhujiajiao water town and wore it whenever I was writing.
At Zhongshan Park we laughed a lot, but I had mixed feelings. Leaving at that special moment before the Mid-Autumn Festival was strange. I was happy in Shanghai but my life was also clouded. In the past year I had lost my cousin Yorgos, a kind of brother, and I couldn't get on with my life. Everything seemed vain and difficult, even simply looking at the sky. I looked at the pavement, mostly.
In Shanghai I started to look at the sky again. I think it all started in Hangzhou where we visited West Lake and the Three Pools Mirroring the Moon - an island on an island, a lake within a lake. The topography hypnotized me. It meant something precious but I couldn't figure it out. Now, looking at the bright ring of the bridge I thought that Chinese landscapes with lakes had a special meaning. If I understood it, I would also understand the meaning of life, I thought, and why we have to die.
I came to Shanghai to write, but it was hard, even with my ring. Every day I wandered around Zhongshan Park, watching people perform martial arts or dance. I liked their playful interaction with nature, especially when they bumped their hips into trees. This was reflexology, but it looked like actually hitting the tree, trying to punish it. And the tree stood still. Trees don't get angry.
I was angry with the nature of things, angry with myself. But I realized my priorities were wrong when I looked at these people who tried to be present in the moment and be happy. I thought a lot, so much that my brain would hurt and then Ran and I would get a massage. Then the pain would open up, in circles, like water when pebbles hit the lake.
Back in Athens, I had to cope with very depressed people who faced a deep financial crisis and didn't know how to bump into trees. At least I had my wish flask. I made a list.
To finish my novel and be happy with it even if Greek book companies collapse. To remember that my country is a lot more than corrupt politicians. To come back to Shanghai someday. To find again the joy of life.
To Ran, I gave gift certificates for massage and dim sum and all my Shanghai food magazines because we both liked massages and food. I remember her in the massage chair, eyes closed, with a smile on her beautiful, collected Korean face. In the dim light of the parlor, her face resembled the moon.
Ran's present to me before I left Shanghai was a picnic at Zhongshan Park. It was my last evening, a very special one. Almost a full moon, bluish clouds and the smell of early autumn in the air.
We sat on towels and Ran made a beautiful arrangement of handmade kimpa, kimchi and Korean pizza. I brought Mongolian buns with bean curd, French chocolate cake and beer. Zdravka brought cherry tomatoes and bananas. She gave us small wooden flasks of Bulgarian rosewater perfume. She said if we made a wish and put the bottle under our pillow, our wish would come true.
As we sat by the lake, night fell and lights around the lake went on. The bridge was lit so that its curve was perfectly reflected in the water below, creating a full circle, a kind of magical ring.
That ring reminded me of Zdravka's story about our little finger, the pinky, called the writer's finger in Bulgarian. If writers wore it while writing, the good stories would come to them. I loved the idea that stories were forms of deep wishes materialized. I bought a ring in Zhujiajiao water town and wore it whenever I was writing.
At Zhongshan Park we laughed a lot, but I had mixed feelings. Leaving at that special moment before the Mid-Autumn Festival was strange. I was happy in Shanghai but my life was also clouded. In the past year I had lost my cousin Yorgos, a kind of brother, and I couldn't get on with my life. Everything seemed vain and difficult, even simply looking at the sky. I looked at the pavement, mostly.
In Shanghai I started to look at the sky again. I think it all started in Hangzhou where we visited West Lake and the Three Pools Mirroring the Moon - an island on an island, a lake within a lake. The topography hypnotized me. It meant something precious but I couldn't figure it out. Now, looking at the bright ring of the bridge I thought that Chinese landscapes with lakes had a special meaning. If I understood it, I would also understand the meaning of life, I thought, and why we have to die.
I came to Shanghai to write, but it was hard, even with my ring. Every day I wandered around Zhongshan Park, watching people perform martial arts or dance. I liked their playful interaction with nature, especially when they bumped their hips into trees. This was reflexology, but it looked like actually hitting the tree, trying to punish it. And the tree stood still. Trees don't get angry.
I was angry with the nature of things, angry with myself. But I realized my priorities were wrong when I looked at these people who tried to be present in the moment and be happy. I thought a lot, so much that my brain would hurt and then Ran and I would get a massage. Then the pain would open up, in circles, like water when pebbles hit the lake.
Back in Athens, I had to cope with very depressed people who faced a deep financial crisis and didn't know how to bump into trees. At least I had my wish flask. I made a list.
To finish my novel and be happy with it even if Greek book companies collapse. To remember that my country is a lot more than corrupt politicians. To come back to Shanghai someday. To find again the joy of life.
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