I have, since the dawn of air travel, been writing journals such as these of my exploits and opinions. This one, I have decided will be different. The impetus for this decision is the fact that if Work-Plan 439/B gets put into operation, this will be my last trip abroad as a full-time employee. (Plan 439/B is my own plan, before you start worrying. Although I will say that the plan is exactly the same as Work-Plans 128/F to 439/A, none of which were carried out. How I have decided this journal is going to be different, is that I will completely type it up, and not get bored half way through and go onto another project that I can leave half-done soon after. You, the reader, will know how successful in this endeavour.
This decision has put a lot of pressure on this text to be good, to be interesting, to be 'unputdownable' in the same way that two ends of a high voltage electric cable are 'unputdownable'. Helping towards this 'unputdownableness', are all those untold years of putting my thoughts on paper in situations just like this. Working against it are all those untold years of putting my thoughts on paper in situations just like this. In short, is there anything left to report? I am nearly 30 (23 in Spice Years) and have travelled a reasonable bit. Surely there is little left for me to see or be amazed at.
I know the answer already. yes there is lots left to be amazed at. I am still astounded at things that happen in my own country, in my own small world. Why it was only three days ago that I held down one of my flat-mates in a bid to stop her throwing her shoes at another flat mate.
People will never cease to amaze me. And those people whose very culture is very different from my own have a huge head start in this department. Although, the shoe-throwers of the world are way, way out there in a league of their own.
Some things about this trip are already new. The route to the airport for a start. Normally, I bundle onto the underground with my over-packed suitcase and heavy cabin bag, or I accept my mother's kind offer of my father driving me to the airport. This was great when I lived on the Piccadilly line or was in a position to easily get to my parents' house, but this not so easy now. Where I live now is the other side of London to my parents, and despite being much closer to Heathrow, than I've ever live before (save for when I was in Bracknell, but we won't go into that), to get their by underground includes two changes, a lot of waiting around, and a good deal of being tormented by the souls of the dead under who's graves the trains travel.
Recently, I discovered that my flat-mate (neither the shoe-thrower, nor the shoe-throwee, but a third one) lives so very close to Heathrow, and is forever making the trip home (usually to avoid the shoe-thrower, as it happens). She is such a lovely, generous soul, that she would have gladly driven me there had she not been up to her knees in mud and marijuana at Glastonbury.
But recently, a new service has come into being. A service governed by the mystic number fifteen. It takes fifteen minutes from the station (Paddington) to Heathrow. It leaves every fifteen minutes. And it costs (including the taxi fair from my home) fifteen pounds. It is the quickest way to Heathrow I have yet found.
I did the right thing by using this new method, as when I arrived at, an announcement said that due to 'operational difficulties' the underground was not running from the airport.
Checking in, as usual, I found myself in the queue reserved for awkward and stupid people headed by trainee airline staff. Why I always pick this line, I don't know. The worrying thing is, I know I am not awkward.
Once I have waited, watching the other queues shuffle along, and told the woman I wanted an aisle seat (somewhere near the font if possible), I was free to wander around the shops in Heathrow Terminal 2.
Terminal shops are strange. There is nothing you need there as a rule. No essentials, just luxuries. At least that's the case in any large airport. They are similar to expensive shopping malls in that respect, and certainly they have the same feel. One thing that isn't the same is that people in shopping malls nearly always look as though they have a purpose. Only a handful look like they're killing time. The others are there to shop. In airports, everyone is killing time. Airport shopping areas also have one other singular oddity. The shops have unexpected proportions. Tie Rack and Sock shop have huge hypermarket-sized areas at either end of the terminal. Harrods has a kiosk.
In all of these shops, I completely failed to locate any of the trinkets I had been requested to buy by our customer. But I did come away with a new Walkman - one of the new style with HUGE headphones. It seems as if miniaturisation was a thing of the past. People no longer think mini TVs are cool, but want screens that fill their wall. Vacuum cleaners are a fair old size again. And There's no point in making computers any smaller than they are now, you'll only lose them.
Today's carrier is Lufthansa, so in-flight conversations will be loud, but the meals will be served on time. Facial hair forecast: moustaches expected; beards likely. Lederhosen on stewardesses: we can but hope.
Oh, and as expected, the stewardesses spoke German to me. With my fair hair, blue eyes and Scorpions' album, I'm probably more German than most people on this flight. (Please note that the Scorpions' album was taped for me by my friend when I was 17, and the only reason it still exists, is because I haven't taped over it yet. Please do not think I like the Scorpions or that I have this tape with me.)
If Heathrow Terminal 2 shops resemble the shopping experience of some bland, misshapen future where vegetables and fruit have been replaced by suitcases and socket adapters, then Frankfurt airport's resemble a bad mall in the poorer part of rich town or the expensive part of a poor town. It reminds me of the Elephant and Castle shopping centre (in South London, England), only more attractive on the outside.
Had near success in finding the items requested by our customer. Well, I found one, only it costs three times as much as in the British Airways catalogue from which she selected it.
I'm currently in the Raucherzone (or smoking section) of the departure gate, because it's here there are the most free spaces. Mostly because you have to share it with a dozen people who are nervously smoking fags knowing this will be their last for nearly 12 hours. I'm also here because I have a really bad passive smoking habit. I'm sure it won't be long before I get passive bronchitis and passive lung cancer. But first, I have to look forward to passive bad breath and passively smelly clothes.
The opposite of passive smoking must be active smoking. Although, I fear this name gives a somewhat false impression, in that most smokers, are a far from active breed. They seem to be conserving their energy for that mad rush to buy another packet that occurs when smokers unexpectedly run out of cigarettes. This shows, too, that smoking totally fouls up the skills involved with planning.
It's good to be thought of as German on a German plane. I'm sure they'll treat me nicer. It runs in the family, this sort of thing. My father was often confused for a local on several Greek islands; and his father got himself confused with the invisible man and disappeared.
This is going to be a long flight. The passengers are very vocal - although not so much those going there as those returning. And there is no individual video screens with 17 channels of current and classic films, great TV programmes, and video games as there is on Singapore Airlines. And the stewardesses aren't so distracting on Lufthansa. (P.S. I'm not sexist, I'm just currently deprived.)
Still it's only ten hours, not fourteen. And the film we have no choice but to watch is NOT a Macauley Culkin one. It's Leonardo DiCaprio. "The Boy in the Iron Mask."
Tired and irritable thought of the day: Why do planes fly so high? Surely that means there's further to go?
My undercover German attempts are not going so well. I got away with the ordering of the apple juice and thanking the girl, but her question about the ice really threw me. I must find out what "über meine Brustwarze" means when I get back.
Along with my drink, I got a packet of Jumpy's. These are baked mashed potato blobs in the shape of pregnant bunnies with long tails. Or as the picture on the packet will have it, kangaroos. They are made by Funny-Frish. Those Crazy, mad Germans. (P.S. I am not xenophobic, I'm just currently deprived.)
I know I've been spoilt by Singapore airlines, but a good long-haul flight is not one where there is only one choice of viewing material, nor where there are no video games to numb your brain if you can't sleep (as I couldn't), nor where the hot towels - which were only given out once! - are pathetic and more like super-hot wet-ones rather than the fantastically scalding flannels that the above named superior airline dishes out. Ah well, it's nearly over. I won't have to go through this again for nearly three weeks.
The things I do to please customers. Last time I shaved off my goatee 'cos I knew they didn't approve of it out here. this time I've flattened my hair after some surprised looks and comments. God, I look like I've got a 9-5 job now. Note to self: get a nose ring to remove for next trip.
Being excessively tired when I arrived, I think I managed to pay a large number over the odds for the taxi from the airport to the office. I'm always gullible before the first tea of the day. Note to self: drink tea earlier.
Further note to self: (I'm so tired, I think this is a running gag) Must buy a watch and umbrella. And some decent and appropriate work/casual trousers.
On the subject of changing, I am suddenly very into the football. I always vaguely am, but since the last few days, it's increased dramatically. Pretty much since the England Columbia game. I don't know if this is because being far away from home always makes me patriotic and not easily being able to watch the game makes me more keen to do so.
Actually since before that match I have had stuck in my head that blasted "It's Coming Home" song. Evidence of this may have appeared in this text already.
Yesterday, my plan of staying awake until at least 8 p.m. didn't quite work out.
During the day, I attended two meetings, prepared a schedule and found the time in between for lunch. This I decided was enough for any day that began after about twenty hours without sleep. I went to my hotel at about 5:30.
I debated shower vs. sleep vs. dinner, and then lay down and fell into a deep sleep. During this sleep I dreamed of showering and eating, or at least of having an argumentative dinner with Roy Hattersley, or whoever the modern equivalent happens to be. I awoke with the outside very dark, and with nothing here to tell me the time. (I brought no watch with me.) I called reception and someone told me it was 12:15. I didn't believe him as my Chinese was better than his English, or at least it would be if I could have remembered any at the time. So I turned on the TV. As luck would have it the half-hourly time signal was on the screen: sure enough, it was half past twelve. Poo! I'd slept for six hours (not much less than I usually do) and awoken before I normally start.
I screwed up big time. Surely now, I would spend my entire time here in the wrong time zone, nodding off to sleep at all hours during the day, but wide awake and restless at night. Ladies and Gentlemen, understand this, Vampires are not fiends, they just haven't adjusted from Transylvanian time yet.
I may have saved the day. Den, den der! I had a shower, and sorted some papers out, and went back to bed again. This time in the other of my twin beds, because the last one had had a person in it who had not bathed for a good couple of days. And unexpectedly I slept for I don't know how long, but the local TV stations haven't started up yet, but the sun is up. My guess is it's about five AM.
Well, that's the latest tale in the series 'Pete and the Time Zones'. Tune in next time...
Right, now do I do stuff, eat or sleep?
Teaching English seems to be a large concern of the TV stations here. My favourite such program featured a well-fed American in pony-tail and glasses, i.e. a Harvard graduate, and a Chinese woman. Basically his job was to explain things in English and hers was to translate and expand in Chinese.
First off, our friend explained the significance of the lyrics of a song that compared love (and life) to a river. You can probably guess most of the metaphors used, but the one they missed was that you always end up out at sea.
Later, when I turned back, the pair had gone and a brightly gratified studio had replaced them. In the centre of this color-bonanza, was the crazy-shirted Jerry. Jerry was a thinner American, who sat on a high stool under the words Jerry's Stories. Jerry was a raconteur of the "Kids TV" school.
Jerry told a Christmas story of a miser who accidentally arrested Santa Claus, who he thought was after his money. The story was simplistic and told with animated clarity, as is the style of the Kids school of story-telling.
When Jerry had finished his tale, we went back to the original pair of presenters, now in a different studio. The guy looked very peeved, and had taken off his glasses to show it. His task now, was to go over Jerry's story and explain it. He clearly resented having to do this. He hated the fact the kids preferred Wacky Jerry to Clever him, and that all those years of studying language and drama had lead him here, explaining a two-bit story to foreign kids who would one day be burning his country's flag, and maybe his capital too. Jerry had the better wardrobe too.
Yesterday, several hours after my own unassuming arrival here, one Mr Bill Clinton (current USA president) arrived for a short visit with all his usual pomp, ceremony and extra-marital philandering.
The Chinese have certainly prepared for him. The streets are cleaned, the Chinese flags flying, the usual dissidents rounded up. Today only Mr Clinton is allowed to speak out against China's human rights record. And their high drug-related death rate, the fact that kids regularly go to school armed with guns and... oh hang on...
Maybe I'll run into Mr resident over the next few days. Mind you, I had intended on keeping clear of the sleazy end of town.
The roads here remain a nightmare for those not used to them. Policemen are on every traffic-light governed junction to control the traffic. There seems to be little respect for such things as traffic lights, road signs, lane markings, etc. (The is, however, a lot of respect (or fear) of policemen.) Drivers, cyclists and pedestrians all share the road in a huge mêlée of moving bodies and vehicles that should be nothing but constant knocks, scrapes and outright collisions. But no, all that is constant is the tooting of horns which means (as a rule) "I'm here, look out."
It's being in foreign places where sparse great English is spoken, that I realise my love for complicated sentence structures and long, obscure words. This is probably the main reason I write more when I'm here. Although, I don't seem to use much in the way of complicated sentence structures and long, obscure words when I do. How supraobservationally exquisite.
The other annoying thing I do is make up words.
So, what's changed here in the last year? More überbahns have been built. I don't know if this is the right word for these big overhead fast(er) roads, but it works for me. They are raised motorways that go over the top of the existing clogged roads and have none of those side streets that perpetually spew out more cars and bikes. And they have no bikes. The latest reaches to the bottom end of the Bund. (For information see my previous missives, or tourist information, or later here, probably.)
Also a few more sky-scrapers are in progress. There's one with a UFO on the top as if the whole city is trying to give itself a space-age theme. (See description of the television tower (or Gay Pride's moon-shot attempt) in earlier report.)
I expect there are a few more bars, a couple more malls, and a lot less of the old-style buildings.
This hotel has no 24-hour eateries (discounting room service), but it does have 24-hour bowling. Explain!
Tonight I ate in the restaurant in the hotel. It's a good place to practice my (appalling) Chinese as they don't speak such good English there. Or anywhere in the hotel, really.
Selections from the menu (not yet tried): Sea Horse, Dog (yes, dog) and Beef 'Ganetals'.
England play Argentina tonight. At 3 am. Do I sleep through it? (Sensible.) Sleep early and wake up for it? (Bit mad, but do-able.) Wake up for half time? (Good compromise.) Do the second one but instead of watching it in my hotel, I go to a foreign bar? (Sheer madness, and it involves so much effort and getting dressed.) I really want to watch it because it's so awkward to.
Just like back home, half the TV adverts here are football related. And they don't even have a team in it.
So I woke up at three am to watch the football - with Chinese subtitles. What the Hell have I become!?!
It is not the place of this text to review last night's (football) proceedings. I will just say that there was a fantastic close-up on the ball, before a goal kick. it showed the Adidas ball, on which was clearly visible the words "Official ball of the World Cup France 1998."
The amount of sleep I managed to procure around the England game is somewhere between nothing and four hours. I reckon its probably about the middle of that range. I began nodding off in the taxi from the bank, where most is done, to our agent's office, where the coffee is. Which goes to prove I am no longer terrified for my life whenever I get in the back of one of these maniac-guided tools of near-destruction.
The Chinese do odd things to eggs. They cook them in tea; fry them so that the meat becomes entwined with them; they use them to make the stringy bits in soup. The one I had today was poached with meat, but it looked and smelt off. But everyone's was the same - and it's not the first time I've had one like this - so I conclude it's a style and not a mistake.
Something that is clearly a mistake, and has nothing to do with style, is the screen-saver someone has here. It's a Princess Diana memorial side-show. I mean slideshow. I think. Well, whatever, there are simulated framed images of her with 80's hair-dos; signing up for charities; standing with her husband; signing up for more charities; walking with her children; and finally cancelling her patronage of several charities.
Ate in the hotel restaurant again. This time I got a waitress who could speak pretty reasonable English. This is typical, really, as I'd brushed up a bit on the required Chinese and felt a little more confident than yesterday, so there was a chance I'd recall it. But laziness will always win through, and English is what we spoke. Stupid really, this is the best chance I'll have in ages to practice my Chinese, and I'm only here for another two weeks.
Besides me there are two other Westerners in this hotel, at least. It's a huge 20-storey building, but so far it seems to serve mainly Chinese customers. Mind you there aren't too many guests of any description, and they haven't finished building the thing yet. The first of these westerners appears to be a drunk. The second a bit of a letch. The latter offered to take me to the flesh-pots of Shanghai at the weekend. My initial reaction was an internal recoiling and burning desire to blurt out the word "No!", but it is a portion of Shanghai life I have yet to observe, and as a seasoned commentator... blah blah blah... all sides of the coin... blah blah blah... future wife blah blah blah.
Had the best and longest sleep I've had since I got here. it was deep and dreamless, although the nap I had before I ate last night gave way to some highly psychedelic dreams (forgotten now, alas). Still woke up tired - but then, as far as my body is concerned, I woke up in the middle of the night after falling asleep in the afternoon.
Got in the office before anyone else this morning. Exchanged a few words with the cleaner in the local patois. Well, I understood what she said and responded with mono- and bi-syllabic answers. Tomorrow I shall ask her what she did on her vocation.
As I have said before, footie fever is definitely in effect here. Why the day after the England-Argentina match, at lunch, I was conscious that the table next to ours consisted of four blokes talking animatedly about something. And occasionally, they threw in words that could easily be the Hanyisations of the names of the English soccer team.
A colleague informed me that football (and more pertinently, last-night's game) was exactly what they were talking about. I was far from alone in being awake at that time. A significant number of people here had been.
In fact, the mood was of disappointment. English football has quite a following here, with matches being shown late-night at the weekends. So it was England that most people here were rooting for. China having failed to qualify, and all other Asian teams having been knocked out.
As I have also noted before, adverts here are very often as football-related as they currently are back home. In fact, maybe more so, as World-Cup fever has probably been cured in England thanks to the new Beckham vaccine. (Side effects include enlarging your chest and making you smile lots - see Posh Spice.)
Back to the point. I saw an advert last night that appeared to be for condoms. Well, one such product was animated as a chap - it's always a chap isn't it, surely they'd sell more if there animated them as a girl - who was in goal. And, in a stunning piece of metaphorization, Mr Condom saved many, many on-target shots at the goal by catching the balls in itself. (There's a very poor joke in here somewhere making reference to this condom goalkeeper and England's current keeper, Seaman. It's so poor, I can't even be bothered to work out the wording for it. And anyway, it would work better if Seamen was a striker.)
The best thing about this advert, was the name of the product in question: Jissbon, pronounced 'jizbon.'
And yet something else I have already covered in these missives, is the subject you cannot avoid in this country. The subject of Bicycles. Everywhere you go, bicycles swarm around you. The first thing that hits you is the sheer number of them. Wander into the right roads (i.e. most) at the right time (nearly always), and the streets will be filled with a great multitude of bikes. Millions and millions of cyclist riding in both directions, weaving in and out of each other with uncanny skill.
Something you soon realise is that bikes are certainly not transport for one person, despite their design. You can easily fit a girlfriend or a daughter on the luggage rack. Bicycles are used to carry freight too. There are two sorts of freight bikes:
1) The trike. This has a large flat area behind the driver which is used to carry anything. And I mean anything. There are two constants about these vehicles: a) the bikes themselves are very old and rickety. b) They are horrendously overloaded. Whatever is being carried must rise up several feet above the drivers head, at least. Spilling out over the sides, is common, and stretching beside the driver or way out behind is not rare, and even hanging ominously over the head of the poor struggling driver is not unheard of.
The loads can be literally anything. From computer screens to a huge refrigerator. From legs of mutton to chickens in cages. My favourite so far is two-dozen plus brand-new mountain bikes on a very rickety, old trike. There's some irony in there somewhere.
2) Lop-sided bikes. These are bicycles with a basket on the side, and are an even more bizarre sight than the above. This is because, although a two-basket version exists, the one-basket model is far more popular. The baskets are hooked over the back of the bike beside the wheel, usually on the right-hand side if there is just one. Half the work of riding one of these so equipped bikes must be keeping steady on a machine where the centre of balance is off to your right. And don't think they don't carry some pretty heavy loads on these things too, because they do.
I've worked out a further reason why I'm having problems with these here beds in this hotel. They're so hard. And the pillows are so soft, that you either have one and effectively your head is on that rock-like bed; Or you have two, and you get suffocated by them.
Today is suck-dog, superhell, please-go-away day number one in the calendar of shite. It sucks, and it sucks dogs. It sucks dogs so big that they could well be just buildings made of dung in disguise. Today is the day that I feel officially ostracised from the human race. But don't take my word for it, ask the human race.
I know all this sounds like the paranoid ramblings of an overtired man that it is, but that doesn't mean that isn't how I feel right now.
Anyway, let me take you back to happier times... no, sod it, let's go back to last night...
After a nice meal with two of our agent's secretaries - one vocal and with reasonable English, the other quiet and doll-like - I found myself back at my hotel and bored. I decided to go out and watch the football (France vs. Italy) in some bar. More as an exercise to have a conversation than to actually watch the two nations battle it out.
Unfortunately, I picked the wrong place. I went to Sally's Place, a Cheers-style English pub that seems to change ownership regularly. (It was the place I called before to see if they would be open for the England match (seeing as how they were an English pub and all), but weren't.) Tonight was perfunctory reggae band night. Footie was relegated to a couple of snowy screens with the sound down. It was relegated to fifth in the things people wanted to do that night. 5) Watch the footie; 4) Converse with their close friends; 3) Make out; 2) Listen to the reggae; 1) drink beer. I did one and five, and listened to the band, but that was not a conscious decision.
The band weren't that bad, really. They were acceptable. They were fantastic if you lived here long term and had very little access to live Western music.
As expected, I got sucked into the football. the lack of sound was fine as all I would have heard are the distant cheers and the Chinese commentary, which I am not in a position yet to understand. The only things you miss when listening to commentary you don't understand are the verbal goofs, and the occasional aside stating the referee comes from.
Football, I have come to realise, is the highest and the lowest of man's achievements in one commercial-TV unfriendly package.
I went back to the hotel during the adverts before extra time. Penalties as a way of deciding the result is all about two things: The ability of the goal keeper to second-guess the shot; and the shooter not messing up (I.e. his ability to be calm under increasing pressure).
Chinese TV commentators: latest score:
Channel 1 (Sponsored by Nippon Paint) 2 (Noisy, Noddy)
Channel 2 (Sponsored by Fosters Lager) 1 (Ugly)
After that it was all downhill. Not tired, so I lay down and listened to some music. Alas I have no restful music with me, and it didn't help me sleep at all. After a side and a half, I turned on the TV to see what the time was. (The local stations always show the time every half-hour, and I was feeling lucky.) It was 3:30, and game two (Brazil vs. Denmark) had been on for half an hour. Watched it - well it was less my decision, it sucked me in - and afterwards fell sufficiently tired to try sleeping. I did.
I was woken by a call from the secretary placed in charge of me (she of the reasonable English, and chatty demeanour.) She wanted a chat, and was at work, despite it being a Saturday - it was not uncommon for her to have to be.
The way she talked suggested it was afternoon. Had I gone shopping yet? I lay there for a bit, considering the possibility of getting up; toying with the idea of going out and buying all that stuff I said I would. Or I could just stay in bed for a bit. I felt tired and a little despondent.
After an indeterminate period of time, the phone rang again. It was someone speaking Chinese at me, asking me something about the 'dianhua' , which I thought meant telephone. I didn't understand what she was saying, but no matter how much I protested that I didn't understand, she would do nothing other than repeat the question in exactly the question in exactly the same way. I was too tired (and we shall suppose, arrogant) to work out the meaning using a dictionary. I just guessed that she was asking me when I was leaving the room so it could be cleaned. This is quite usual in hotels if you spend most of the day in your room through illness, laziness or inspiration. I said, "later... one hour" tiredly (and I'm sure, arrogantly) in English. This seemed to placate, although not please, her.
I showered and walked to the underground station. I went along a road that nearly every day has a street market, which is not a good place to go if you love animals too much. Cages are packed full of chickens, ducks and other fowl; buckets of water are filled with frogs, crabs, shrimp, ells and fish. All wait to be bought. The chickens are killed and plucked there by the side of the street for you. I have never seen this, but I have witnessed the actions either side, and that's enough, thanks.
At the station I found it was four o'clock. I proceeded to Central Hua Hai Road, the second main shopping street, and thus the less crowded.
On a footbridge over the deep and dangerous Hua Hai Zhong Lu, an American (with guide on tow) asked me how it was going. "Not too bad," I said chirpily and automatically. Actually, it was a bit shit, but I couldn't tell a complete stranger that. And despite not being too happy, I still managed, without even thinking, to portray to the inquirer that I was perfectly happy. That's how long I've been living in England. Later, I realised he too was probably missing deeper conversations, but at the time, I merely acknowledged his own acknowledgement and walked on. I don't make friends very easily.
I'm currently sitting in a café in a large Japanese department store, eating a croissant (I know!) and drinking tea with milk (I know!). I'm currently hoping to God the call this morning didn't say "you have an important international phone call, do you want to take it?" Today is one super-festival of paranoia, time to shop.
The day ended okay, in the end. I found myself in an American-style bar watching the footie. I had expected the bar to be full of Dutchmen (their team was playing, and a year ago(ish) in the same bar, there were dozens of Dutchmen celebrating some holiday or other) or Americans celebrating the 4th of July. It was practically deserted. So I chatted to a recently imported Australian about football and er, the people of the world. And then I went home feeling a little less sorry for myself. What a miserable shit.
I think my problem is that I am pretty familiar with here, so that it no longer grabs me with quite the same vigour and yells "Hey! I'm new!" Yet at the same time, I certainly don't feel that I belong here, or that confident in gadding about. There are still large cultural and language barriers left. But the bottom line, the line around the bottom, is that the locals treat me like I don't belong. They are not unfriendly, but I am certainly not one of them, and I never will be.
In a way, that should make it better than being back in England, where the feeling of not belonging and alienation don't have quite such well-defined roots.
TV variety shows here are dire. Really amateur, and they make me cringe to watch as a rule. But the content, probably isn't much different from those back home, they are just slicker there.
As if to remind me of the standard back home, one of the local stations showed the Russ Abbot Show today. (Russ Abbot: British (s)light comedian, popular with the elderly and TV bosses during the 1980s.) It was dubbed into Chinese, and I played that game where you try to work out what was so funny. The same game I play when watching it in English.
Today's verdict is that I am fab! Well, as fab as a crap person can be. So, what did I do? Well, I went shopping and bought nothing I finished the second act of a two act playlet I've been working on for a few weeks now. I also went for dinner where no English was spoken, and there was none on the menu. And I got by - although more thanks to my phrase book acting as a mediator than to my proficiency in the Chinese language.
The only mar to the whole proceedings was when I managed to spurt shrimp brains on my new trousers. (Erm, that is shrimp brains spurted out of the (cooked) shrimp's head as I ripped it off in order to eat the edible bits. I was not eating shrimp brain soup, which I am sure is a delicacy in some parts of China. I should explain that I was ripping the head off to discard it, not to drink the tart brains and bits out of it. Believe me, doing that is common here.
I also feel I should re-emphasise that these shrimp were dead. (See earlier missives from this region. When they're typed up.)
Whilst I ate, the two waitresses watched the omnibus edition of a local soap opera. It had all the usual soap opera elements - love, hate, revenge, madness, holidays abroad, and presumably burgeoning pop starlets. Even the incidental music could have been shipped straight from the archives of neighbours. And it probably was.
The hotel gets a sports channel (Star Sports), but it is mad. It is the most mental sports channel ever. When the football is being played live on other channels, it shows recordings of that days tennis at Wimbledon. When Wimbledon is actually going on, they show a recording of the golf tournament that's on at the moment. No doubt when there is actually golf being played in the world somewhere, they show the last night's Eastbourne tiddlywinks semi-final between Howard "Bone crusher" Smelter and Harvey "Soufflé" Jan-Roberts. Madness! I say, Madness!
And what's even madder, is that there are no thirteens in this hotel. No floor 13, no room 13 on any floor. It's so annoying, enough to make you go around breaking all of the mirrors and crossing people on the stairs.
My mood improves no end. This is mainly due to completing in a day what my pessimistic mind had forecast to take the best part of the week. I went home and literally vegged out in a way I have not done for ages. It took me three hours to write a postcard, and become increasingly annoyed that CNN never shows you what you want to see when you want to see it.
So I took a taxi to Chang Le Road, where there are supposedly restaurants in abundance. The taxi ride there was great. I had a reasonable conversation with the driver, as far as my limited Chinese would allow me. It was helped on by my increasing ability to interpret the Chinese versions of Western names.
He liked football (I wasn't sure of the word for football, but recognised the Hanyuisation of Maradona); he's forty, but as he said, doesn't look it; he expressed amazement that I had picked up Chinese after only a couple of weeks in Shanghai, so I had to tell him I had been taught back in London. It was great. It was the most stop-start conversation in the history of cross-cultural communications, but I could never have had it last year when I was here. Last year, my Chinese conversation technique consisted of about three very badly pronounced words, a lot of pointing and gesturing, and using "There isn't any" or "I have none" in every instance where I meant no.
Chang Le Road is a small centre for restaurants and a place to pick up prostitutes, or for them to pick up you, I soon realised. Two very attractive, pneumatically enhanced girls gave me the eye, but male pride told me this was because I was looking gorgeous that night, not because they suspected I had enough ready cash to inspect their plastic surgeon's handiwork. It wasn't until a third woman, older and wiser, who had spent her money on English lessons rather than silicone implants and tight leopard-skin dresses, approached me that I realised I wasn't gorgeous, just someone they'd quite happily sleep with, for money. The older woman started conversing with me, and her English was pretty darn good, but if it cost the same as a boob job, then it ought to be. She wanted us to go to a bar - to help improve her English she said. Although, I firmly believe it was ultimately to improve her cash flow. Certainly, as for learning English I would not have been much use to her. I am very monosyllabic during sex. And usually asleep afterwards.
I lied to her. About the hotel I was staying in; what I was doing that evening; and I even said I was getting married in three months, which is about as untrue as you can possibly get. In the end I still had to make an excuse to leave her company. I had to look along the Hua Hai Road (again!), sorry. And guess, what. I felt guilty that I had taken her time when she was trying to earn money, and she had nothing to show for it. I'm English, and we need no excuses to feel guilty about something we didn't need to feel guilty about. Strangely, we rarely feel guilty when we should.
The taxi driver home didn't try for a conversation, and he didn't even know where my hotel was. Durr!
There is no daytime TV here. All five terrestrial channels show a test card. This is presumably because everyone should be out eking a living during the daytime, and not lounging around at home. What do night-workers and students do during the day then? Oh, yeah, sleep.
The secretary here, who is booking my trip to Xi'an, paints a pretty grim picture of the town. With near fatal heat, and certain death at the hands of villains. Never trust a depressive, I always say.
They emerge with the failing light. They stare at strangers, and look really bad with their shirts off. They spread out all over town, taking over small pockets as their own. Some are sage, others dead in all but fact. But they all have one thing in common. They can all perform outstanding physical feats with great suppleness and control. They are... The Old People. Coming to a sidewalk near you.
As the light dies, they come to life. Invisible under direct sunlight, or full moonlight, they can only be seen at early morning or late evening. The emerge at these times to perform Tai Chi with fantastic grace. And to sit on deckchairs and stare incredulously at the pale man wander by.
Actually, being serious, old people here are pretty darn fit. They can do things with their bodies that at 29, I am probably not capable of. In fact, if I haven't tried them before now, I probably never will be able to do them.
Unlike in the UK, where we had to suffer the bits that taught you Spanish, Sesame Street here is tailor-made for the Chinese market. The puppets are all the same, but the humans are all Chinese. The wise, black teacher is now a wise Chinese grandmother, etc. Many of the sketches and skits are the same, but they don't teach the alphabet any more, obviously. What is the most terrific thing, is that the voices are pretty mach the same. Big Bird sounds exactly the same, even though he is singing in Mandarin, not Now York. Burt's voice is spot-on. In fact the only voice that seems to let the side down is Ernie. But, he is still Ernie in his actions. Up to his old mischief, although now, of course its now called tiaopi.
Another fascinating programme, is called "San Ren Shou" or "Three People Talk." And that's literally what happens. Three people talk. About stuff. They occasionally watch western news items or adverts, and then they spend the next eternity discussing them. The three people in question get on very well, and are never lost for words.
First there is a girl with a penchant for posh, yet not aloof frocks. I imagine she has ambitions way beyond the show, and will shoot you if you crossed her. She is distracting because she bares a resemblance to Una Stubbs. Poor dear.
The second dresses in the manner of a twenties intellectual. He has a wide and wacky™ selection of bow ties, that seem to be so deliberate in their choice as to be knowing. He has a sense of humour and does not seem to let his intellectual pretensions get the better of him.
The third is more down to Earth, despite wearing suits most of the time. My guess is that he is an up and coming TV comic.
One recent topic of conversation was a kissing competition in the US. This was a competition to see who could kiss for the longest. Basically you had to kiss for 24 hours. You know, the way insecure couples do. These chats are repeated regularly, but then everything here seems to be.
The sports channel has found new depths today: The Australian Volleyball League.
Radio find of the day: The Grandstand Theme. (Grandstand: Long-running British TV Sports program.)
Bill Clinton has been gone a week, and the beggars are back on the streets in force. China doesn't have that many beggars, really, but they can be quite determined when they set their heart on having your cash.
Today is the last working day of this trip. Zowee, does that feel good. Then I have one more shopping day until my trip to Xi'an. Too happy to slag anything off. I love you all.
Tonight I visited Shanghai's Irish theme pub, enjoyed traditional Irish haute cuisine, and drank traditionally well-marketed Irish beer. It was just like being in Dublin... Illinois. You expect there to be a sign that says "Welcome to the Old Country™."
The night produced two surprises. One: a bill that was higher than that first taxi receipt where I was ripped off big time. This was thanks to a starter, and two and a half pints of expensively imported Kilkenny. (Oh, my God, they've Kilkenny. You bastards!) At nearly £5 a pint, I hope it was imported over the Andes on specially trained seals lead by a gold-plated Rolex.
But is it right that I should sit soaking up a fake Irish atmosphere, at considerable expense to my company, whilst back in the Old Country™, a poor deluded band of orange-fetishists are camped outside in the cold because they can't have their way and march provocatively through the midst of their selected enemy?
Yes it is. Oh, so right.
The second surprise was seeing up and coming film director, John Mackay. (You may not have heard of him yet, but that just shows how up and coming he really is.) It was only when I looked closer at him that I realised John Mackay, but a Japanese guy who was his exact double, bar some racial differences, which I seem to have become less conscious of over the last year or so.
The other strange thing that happened was going to speak French and discovering that I could not think of a single French word. All I could think of was Chinese. My french came back to me briefly on the way home, but by the time I was back in my hotel room, it had gone again. Is my Chinese trying to usurp my French as my second language? How long before Yingyu is at weixian?
Signs in Shanghai are generally written in English as well as Chinese. That is, to be more accurate, they are written in a blend of Pinyin and English.
Pinyin, for those of you who don't know, is the Chinese representation of their words using a subset of the Roman character set, modified with tonal indicators. Pinyin characters are usually similar to the English pronunciation, but not always. Sometimes, it seems they are closer to the French, and other times closer to some random choice of letter. It is not the place to discuss this any further here. But here's a brief summary of the more confusing parts: x = "sh"; c = "ts"; zh = "dj".
English, for those of you who don't know, is the language you are mouthing as you read this. It is not the place to discuss this any further here. But here's a brief summary of the more confusing parts: two = too = to; read = reed; dead ¹ deed; read ¹ read.
Okay, back to the fantastic world of signs. Underneath the Chinese in most signs in Shanghai, are English letters. As a rule these are in Pinyin, except for the last word which will be translated into English.
Thus: "Heng Shan Lu" will be written as "Heng Shan Road." And it is usually the last word, and so "Heng Shan Lu Zhan" is sign-posted as "Heng Shan Lu Station." Taking this on a step, "Shanghai Huoche Zhan Zhan," or the underground station that services the railway station, should be sign-posted "Shanghai Huoche Zhan Station." But it doesn't. And I don't remember exactly what it says, so really I should shut up before I'm taken for a fool.
I spent the afternoon wandering around shops, buying very little except a hat from a side-street kiosk. Much of this time was spent in the company of an artist from Beijing who befriended me. I like to think not just to sell paintings. He spoke very good English with a slight Australian accent. This accent, it emerged, was due to the nationality of his teacher.
Lunch I had alone on the eighth floor of a typically over air-conditioned mall. The dining part called itself 'International Host' and it is a world unto itself. A place where the globe's cuisine collides and is served in neat trays. Italian, Japanese, Chinese, American... that's about it really. The best part of this world of food, is that it is a world of perennial morning. I arrived at about three thirty, and was greeted with "Good morning" by a succession of waiters and waitresses. And what I left, it was still morning.
I escalated (is that a valid use of that word?) down to the lower ground floor, where there was a music department. I think there was some concern about the time I spent in the Chinese-language pop music section, as various shop assistants came over to me and asked me if I needed anything. My Chinese was not up to explaining that I wanted to see if my all-time favourite Taiwanese pop star, "Tarcy" Su Hui Lun, had released anything since I was last in this part of the world. (She had, but it was a compilation, and I had most of the tracks.)
(Translations of) Top seven most used phrases (in Chinese) (by me):
You're hair has a shiny texture that glints well in this pale moonlight, and, oh, how it sets off your skin. Shall I pour some more champagne?
The Shanghai domestic terminal restaurant appears to be run by the same company who run the place I had lunch yesterday. Again, by entering its portals, I was transferred into a land of eternal morning and where the most appetising things on the menu are always Japanese.
The plane to Xi'an flew low enough for individual houses to be made out all the way. It was a fantastic sight. For an hour there was nothing but small towns and the occasional larger town. In between these, pretty much without a gap, were individual houses, each surrounded by a small allotment of crops. These crops were presumably rice or corn. There wasn't a square inch that didn't have one of these farmlets on it. How many thousands of people did I fly over? Countless, that's how many.
The only other features on the way, over this impressively flat terrain, were rivers. These were usually very wide, and either polluted or very cloudy and churned up. They were the brown colour of earth, which surely isn't good for a river. Tankers were the size of ants.
And between us and the ground were clouds. Small, loose flocks of them, slowly gambolling across the sky. I love clouds, and seen from above, they take on a whole new wonder. Nothing else is quite so solid, yet made up of such almost intangible stuff.
Then, a little over half way there, the houses became very sparse as the ground folded up into sharp, jagged mountains. The water became bluey-green and boats almost non existent.
A truly awe-inspiring journey.
This is a country where you could easily hide anything you wanted to. A radar base, a missile silo, an evil underground empire where one small hut conceals the access door through which people enter and scout-ships leave.
The heavy gloom that lay on me in Shanghai is gone. I feel a new man - free, happy. Like a boy, but a grown-up boy, capable of looking after himself. My Chinese flows freer (although, there's still not much of it). It's not just that the feng shui of this hotel room is better, although I'm sure it is better. Maybe it's the nearly frustrating comedy of the electronics in this room: the remote switches seem to have a short. The TV must be switched on several times before it stays on, and the bathroom light can only be switched on after it mysteriously cuts out, but dextrous jiggling of the various switches. None of which are marked 'Bathroom'.
Despite how it sounds, the hotel that has been booked for me has five stars, and is thus rather plush. As with a lot of over-hoteled areas in China, out of season, you can, especially if you get a local to organise it, get some good bargains. I got a pretty darn good rate.
The traveller's bibles (Rough Guide and Lonely Planet) list two adjacent restaurants as being the places to go to get the low down on tours and getting about. One is Dad's Home Cooking, the other, the cheeky newcomer, is called Mum's Home Cooking. I ended up in Mum's for three reasons: 1) My taxi stopped nearer that one and I wasn't going to walk through the outlying tables of one restaurant to get to another. 2) There were more free tables at Mum's - not really a good sign, but hey. 3) Destiny deemed that tonight single men were to go to Mum's and single women to Dad's. And never the train shall meat.
Travellers, that is people travelling abroad for pleasure or discovery, are far, far better company than ex-pats. This is because ex-pats have usually formed an inner circle that they only let people slowly into, travellers are on their own, or in small groups, and are just as much looking for someone to talk to in their mother tongue or second language as you are.
The hotel really shows itself to be five-star when you finally get the TV to stay on. It has twenty five channels, including French and German channels, and Taiwanese pop music station Channel-V. (Why, is French TV's football coverage anchorwoman a gorgeous blonde, whilst all other channels have ugly men?)
The World Cup final was shown live in the bar to a very small, but occasionally enthusiastic crowd. I expected more people, but then the hotel is hardly packed, and it did start at three o'clock in the morning.
It is now 5:15 am, and Bergerac has just started. Don't ask me why, but I am fascinated by Bergerac. I don't like it, but the hatred I used to have for it has turned into a curiosity as to the deeper motives behind the writing of the series. And wherever you go in the world, at some point during your stay, they'll show Bergerac at five o'clock in the morning. Or, in places with real bad TV, on at prime time.
[More soon, I promise.]