18th, 19th, and 20th days condensed like milk
Morning of the 18th, Erin and I walked down to the hotel and caught a cab to the bus station, laden with two backpacks and excitement. The cabbie took a back, roundabout way to get there, but I still had my bearings. I led Erin to the Ming Tien Coffee Language and she was amazed. Just the good old trusty male gyro compass. We killed time eating fries, drinking coffee, reading and playing 500. The bus we had planned catching, the 11:30, was full and we had to get tickets for the 1:00.
We philosophized, discussed Disney’s downfall (The last movie that made money for them was “Lilo and Stitch.” I was particularly tickled that “America’s Heart and Soul” tanked not only because it was trite touchy-feely vignettes, but because my arch-nemesis John Cougar Mellencamp contributed a brand new song for it) and discussed our ideas on how to make the world a better place.
“Make a longer lasting French fry and the world will beat a path to your door,” I said. “No matter what, every fry will by and by arrive at that cold, stiff, reduced-flavor state upon which the consumption of them is an act of masochism. Fries should come with their own foil heat umbrella, a heating dome, or some such device, to extend their shelf life beyond that 9 minute mark.”
As we eked out the last minutes in the station, we tried not to breathe in too much smoke, step where people spat, or overly touch much of anything. Nearby, a couple in their 40’s unloaded a hogshead-size bag of crackers into their carry-on. The bus was an hour late in coming, and once we got going, there was a slight fear that we were getting on the wrong one. In queue, I asked “Souzhou?” and people nodded, but how can you be absolutely certain?
The ferry took its time and we were treated to a view of a trailer bursting with pigs, then one pulled next to it crammed with round cages of chickens. The livestock queue of cars seemed to be moving faster than the mass transport row.
While we drove, the navigator smoked cigarettes directly below the “no smoking” sign. At last we pulled into Souzhou and were delighted to see more traditional Chinese architecture, and back alley canals (It’s the Venice of China).
A cab driver tried to rook us with the fee of 50 yuen, but we shrugged him off. He called “49” after us, but we walked on. The 3 hour bus ride from Haimen to Souzhou was only 46 yuen. Who the hell was this crook?
We walked past restaurants, smith shops, tobacconists, etc until we got paranoid that we wouldn’t make the 6pm check-in time at the Hotel Souzhou. We hailed a cab and Erin sat shotgun, showing on a map where we needed to go. The driver’s eyes spent as much time on the road as they did on Erin’s bosom, but he got us to the right street on time. The road was narrow, stocked full with shops, restaurants, and Westerner-geared bars and clubs (bar names: The Pub Bar, Venice Bar, Pulp Fiction Aussie Bar, We Will Rock U, Greenpeace Bar, etc.)
Hotel Souzhou had an impressive entryway, but the rooms were a little rough. On our floor (perhaps where they put all Westerners) the carpet was stained and threadbare in patches, the walls a little smudged, a dead mosquito on the telephone receiver in the bathroom (which I may have killed, but it remained there even after housekeeping’s four visits.)
Erin took a shower with hot water (her first in four days) and then insisted I indulge also. It was quite nice: perfect water pressure, steam-inducing temperature, good acoustics.
With the handy Lonely Planet guide, we went to a nearby dumpling house and gorged ourselves. For some reason, we were denied going upstairs, but everyone who came in after us tromped on up without difficulty. Then again, they were Chinese. Perhaps they wanted all the Westerners downstairs.
After dinner, we windowshopped, explored, passed some of our fellow Caucasians on the street, yet none made the effort of speaking to us or really acknowledging us. We suspect they were grumpy at not being the singular novelty.
Following a few non-encounters, I vowed aloud: “The next Westerners we come across, I’m going to say something to them.”
The first, a group of ladies, responded awkwardly. English was not their native tongue. Oops. The next pair we passed was a girl at an ATM, accompanied by a guy holding a bottle of beer. I said “Hello,” and they grinned, said “Hello back.” We recognized each other as American, but for some reason we both kept walking in the same direction but not speaking to one another. This frustrating activity continued for a few blocks when I just turned and asked, “Where are you guys from?” The following information was gleaned:
Chuck and Meagan, both 20, are majoring in Chinese in Shanghai, and hail from New York.
chuck and meagan
They knew more Chinese than we, and were headed to a bar called Dream Hollywood. We asked if we could join, and soon we were all getting less sober in the cheesy tavern.
erin wine tipsy and aaron beer buzzed in "dream hollywood"
We became fast friends and all of us were delighted to speak to fellow expatriates. Chuck knew enough Chinese to haggle and tease (his big joke was to insist to whoever waited on him that he was Chinese), confessed his fondness for “meat on a stick” from street vendors. They confirmed the “pink light” handjob hut indicator and regaled us with tales from Shanghai.
“The Pizza Hut in Shanghai,” Meagan said, “Is a fancy dress restaurant. You know the velvet rope they have in front of clubs? They have one. Nice silverware, cloth napkins…”
We drank Tsingtao, except Erin, who opted for white wine. Chuck switched to white wine and I was forced to order a martini after learning they had olives.
The two guys behind the bar were flipping the bottles and shakers just like in “Cocktail” only they were unsuccessful half the time. They made a decent martini, and I closed my eyes with the first crisp, juniper-stung sip. The look on my face was enough to warrant a photo, apparently.
martinis make face glow like moon that neil young sing about
It was the first martini I’ve had in many months and damn if the bastard wasn’t tasty.
Afterwards, we hit Venice (which again barred us from the upstairs) where Meagan and I discussed Jay-Z and Mc Paul Barman. Then we pressed on to a “disco bar” where Chuck teased the staff mercilessly. Two women joined us, one was the owner who pressured us to chug our Tsingtao, and the other was an inquisitive young thing who kept smiling.
note the garbage can betwixt chuck's legs, provided by the owner, lest he should vomit after forcing him to make big chugging.
During a bathroom visit, Chuck told us there were private rooms upstairs. This prompted my three cohorts to suggest I give it a try.
“You’re not attached, how often are you in China?” Erin said. “Go for it.”
“In one night, she’ll make enough money for a whole month.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Just take her hand and go upstairs and see what happens.”
Chuck and Meagan insisted also, probably because it was fun to needle me about it. If I did it, they would get to laugh about their results, if I didn’t, they got to watch me squirm.
I steadfastly declined. I would be ashamed, would never forgive myself. I have never had to pay for sex, nor would I get any kind of power trip out of it. My guilt would be devastating, and chiefly, let’s discuss the safety factor: I had no condom, and I sure as hell wouldn’t trust one they provided. Uggghh. Filthy, ugly, awful things to think about. I suppose I got up and danced just so I wouldn’t have to hear it anymore. It made me want to cry just knowing it exists, but being in a place where it happened: Suddenly that grinning girl at the table was not so charming. It made me depressed. I honor women. This girl had a mother, a grandmother. I could never hold my head up or claim to be a feminist ever again. I know my mates’ tongues were a little loosened by the alcohol, so I let it go.
erin and the would-be courtesan
After the club, Erin and I went back for another helping of dumplings, then turned in for the night.
Next morning, we went to the Hugo Café, above the Hugo bookshop, for iced mochas and “loaf of bread” (two pieces of toast with a spun honey spread) Our baristo Jakey, spoke some English and was nice. Erin left him a tip.
We then met up with Chuck and Meagan at the Blue Pavilion, one of the many garden areas around Suzhou.
erin in the blue pavilion
The Blue Pavilion was a quietly impressive series of gardens, with excellent use of space, movement, archways and doorways, very serene. I got a few pictures, but then ran out of internal memory on my camera. I had to find a memory card. Chuck promised to email his photos.
blue pavilion area
more blue pavilion
blue pavilion pond scene
blue pavilion stuff yet again
We all ate at the dumpling house for lunch. (Yes, three times, same restaurant. You get 12 dumplings for 5 yuen, you can’t beat that.) The waitress was rather snotty to us and even rolled her eyes visibly when taking our order. We were sitting upstairs this time, so maybe that’s what we get for being Western upstairs. Meagan was sifting through her phrasebook and sounded out the Chinese word for “cunt” and our new waitress suddenly had reason to hate us, too. She tried to explain she didn’t mean her, but the waitress’s English was limited.
After lunch and much laughter, all four of us spilt a cab to the train station, Chuck negotiated a pedicab (the bike with a two-person basket) to take us to the bus station. We said our “see-ya-laters” since we had plans and now reason to visit Shanghai. Good people.
As we got in the pedicab, Meagan told us, “Don’t be scared.” We were glad for that, but it didn’t assuage the terror that much. My dude pedaled us out into oncoming traffic, squeezed by a bus with inches to spare (and that’s from swerving at the last possible second) and generally seemed to take us into harm’s way. Luckily the bus station was close and we got our tickets for the next day (so as not to be delayed again) and started the trek back towards our hotel.
On the way, we stopped at a Buddhist pagoda, which was a bit touristy, but fascinating just the same. The building had wooden stairs and the tower itself was etched through with Chinese graffiti. It looked more elegant than English graffiti, certainly more style, but still probably contained a “Fuck You” and a “Mopar rules” in there.
The grounds and gardens of the pagoda were better, more tranquil. Again, fabulous use of space, semi-circle bridges, pathways through the foliage and weeping willows, carved stone steps leading to gazebos overlooking a glasspane pond with fish dancing lazy spirals. At one point a Chinese man approached me with a camera and asked, “Can you take picture…?”
I said ok and reached for the camera, then guy handed it to his girlfriend and stood by me. He wanted a picture with me! Weird.
There were a couple temples with many several painted statues of Buddha in varying hand positions. Monks walked around smiling and nodding, burned out candles dripped their mass into a ringed catch basin, incense as big as javelins were lit and the air was filled with smoke and fragments of ash. I wanted to take pictures to document it, but I thought it would be rude. I took some outside, but not in the temples.
I started talking about how Christianity borrowed heavily from Buddhism and being agnostic I felt more akin to Eastern “religions” which are a set of philosophies, especially Buddhism and Taoism. Erin agreed, then got a little silent and I felt I might have been spouting off again. Sometimes I have the tendency to proclaim my opinions, then dissect and elaborate, with the subconscious desire to influence and persuade. But it stems more from a desire to explain myself in such a way as to eliminate all ambiguity. I hate when people say “I hate this,” but don’t give any reasons why. “I don’t know, I just don’t like it.” I see it as a lack of knowledge or understanding yourself. For myself, that is an unacceptable answer. I needn’t apply that test to everyone I meet, but I do tend to lose respect for people who cannot explain their likes and dislikes, even on a trivial level.
As we walked back, I was terrorized by a guy with a monkey on a rope. He kept jerking it and “making it flip,” then he held out a plate and expected me to pay him for brutalizing this sad dirty monkey. I kept saying “No” and waving him off, but he kept following me, sticking the plate at my chest, jerking that poor beast. I looked to Erin for support but she was halfway across the street, eyeing the monkey with eyes as big as saucers. “28 Days Later” kept going through my head and I was waiting for the moment when this rage-infected monkey was going to sink its incisors into the meaty part of my thigh. I contained my fear in an outward way until at last the man gave up and went in search of a new victim.
I watched the horizon for oncoming monkeys the rest of the day. We passed a mall complex with McDonald’s, KFC, HaagenDaz and Starbucks. Erin got a Frappuccino, I got nothing. I felt like I would be selling out my peeps at Sitwell’s. (They have a sign that reads: Friends don’t let friends go to Starbucks.)
The camera memory card still escaped me, and the mall made me itch, so we left. We at last made it back to our road and stopped in a cybercafe next to Hugo to check email and such. I was saddened to learn of Rodney Dangerfield’s passing, and elated that I had eight messages waiting.
On the way back I hit a couple silk shops (silk being one of Souzhou’s claims to fame) and got a great deal of Christmas shopping out of the way. I was even getting good at haggling. It’s kind of fun after a while, like a game. My Uncle Reza would be proud.
We decided to try a different restaurant, having reached our dumpling plateau proper. This one was recommended by Lonely Planet, but when we sat and pored over the English menu we couldn’t find the spicy tofu it had raved about. They did have pig stomach soup, though. I flipped to the front and saw a baby roach trundling up the seam of the menu. We decided to try our luck elsewhere.
We tried The Pub Bar, but the menu was meat-heavy. However, they had Boddington’s and a guitar for customers to play. I told them we’d be back, then opted for Dream Hollywood, for some Western fare. The tacos Chuck ate the night before looked good. On the way there, I “hello’d” another Caucasian couple and they asked in an odd accent, “Do you know where we can get some Western food?”
“Yes. We’re actually going there now.”
“May we join you?”
“Of course!”
Pazit and Tomer (Paz and Tom) were from Israel and were in the middle of a 37 day holiday all over China. They told us of several exquisite places they’d been (rock forest, panda breeding area, terracotta soldiers, etc.) I had a brilliant conversation with Tom about Israel and such. Apparently, the draft for the IDF is mandatory. Tom served three years, Paz two. He explained, “Almost every Israeli wants peace, just like almost every Arab wants peace, it’s just a small amount of extremists on both sides.”
About living in Israel he said, “After first bomb, no one went anywhere, restaurants were empty, I could actually eat by myself. But then second, third bombs, you accept it. You have to go to your job, you just try to avoid buses and public places with lots of people. When you go to shopping center, there is a guard out front and when you get to the door, you show him what’s in your bag and then you go through. It’s just how it is. It’s funny, when we were in Shanghai, there is a man in uniform at the subway and we walked by and I started to just show him inside my bag. And when we went past, Paz asked, ‘Did you want to go up and show your bag?’ and we both laughed. It’s just different. You get used to it.”
We talked about 9/11 and I told him, “I think one of the things that was bad for the US was that they didn’t give any focus to terrorism until it happened to them personally and then had the audacity to proclaim it such a huge tragedy. And it was big, but it was only one time, whereas your country deals with it on an almost daily basis. I think it was in poor taste of the US to solicit sympathy because it happened to them instead of conveying empathy to countries where terrorism is commonplace.”
(Incidentally, I also take offense at the whole “hero” bravado after the police and firefighters who lost their lives on 9/11. If I was a firefighter or cop I’d have raised a stink. They were not heroes because they died. They were doing their job. Every cop and firefighter still alive and still doing their job are risking their life every day. It’s their job. They’re all heroes. Stop the veneration of the “fallen” and start the veneration of the profession itself. A cop is not a hero unless he dies? That’s offensive.)
The live music started and it was awful. Symphonic piano of “My Way” and then it just got worse. Paz opined that the singer was Portuguese.
We all went to The Pub Bar and I got a Boddington’s and set to tuning that pesky guitar. It took a while and by the time I had it under control, I had lost interest in playing it. I broke the pony, let someone else ride her.
While I was busy wrestling the guitar into submission I caught some of the conversation the others had gotten into with an American man in his early 40’s. He had come over to adopt another girl, was a track coach back home from North Carolina. He was a bit of a yokel (even said to the barmaid, “See? You can talk English! You’re welcome!”) but he was so damned nice and expressed his displeasure with Bush, so he was ok. (He puts the ok in yokel.)
We talked about America and Israel and 9/11 and China and then he had to head back to his wife at the hotel. We headed upstairs to play pool with smaller-than regulation-balls. The size made it challenging and the sticks were shoddy. I had them put on a Queen CD, because the Eagles Unplugged was making my rectum prolapse. (Cheers, Steve)
We played 4 games, boys against girls and the sexes were tied. We went back to the hotel (turns out they were in the room three doors down from us) and told them we’d knock in the morning to go get Western breakfast downstairs.
In order to not get the spins, I put on the telly, watched “In the Cut”. Mark Ruffalo was excellent. The film itself is rather muddled, “awkward” as Erin called it, with an overall story that’s well-worn, but with fine acting, cinematography and a graphic scene of Mark Ruffalo eating Meg Ryan’s ass. Can’t say I enjoyed the film, but it kept me from getting nauseated.
The morning came too quickly and I had an odd dream about getting upset at some ignorant al-anon types that gathered at a truck stop and one of them stole my box of chamomile tea and I yelled at him: “I need this tea to calm down, you fucker! Can’t you see I need to be calm?! Why would you take this?!” I yelled at a couple other girls about their nutritional intake. Bad dream. I blame “In the Cut.”
We ate breakfast (they had some tasty chicken sausages) and Tom wrote a list of all the places they had been so we could venture there on future holiday time. We parted ways after exchanging information and Erin napped until 10:30.
We walked to the bus station and I at last found a memory card for my camera. After a quick cab ride, I grabbed a pic of Darby flipping in front of the main river. As I set up the shot, a crowd gathered. They got in tight to look at Darby, but backed away when I turned him on. Maybe they thought he would explode, thought he was an elaborate firework or something.
darby in souzhou. get it, son!
The bus ride back was interesting. The lady in front of us had a baby and at one point the thing vomited into a plastic bag, which she tied off, stuck it in another plastic bag, then left it on the bus when she got off. Where does that rank on the ghetto meter?
I finished….(Jennifer Sullivan just called which makes her the first to mail something AND the first to call. Jenn: “Well, duh.” Aaron: “Yeah, I’m the most surprised person in my pants) …. “Beneath the Wheel” and it was depressing. I wondered if it was one of those German books that caused a rash of suicides. Beautifully tragic, a stabbing indictment of the education system nurturing the intellect but squashing the soul.
I listened to the mp3 CD Drew made me and grinned to myself as Mr. Bungle, Secret Chiefs 3, Fantomas, and Christian Sex Ed records filled my ears. (Christian Sex Ed should be a band name. Go get Gabe.)
Once back at the school, we ate mess hall dinner, and immediately longed for the dumplings. Nigel said there was a dumpling restaurant in town, so we just have to find it. I went and got beer, wine and bread, then wrote in my journal to catch up the past couple days, drank a beer, watched telly, slept.
phooey! i just opened my 
Oh, yeah.
