May 28th: loud art and dining decadence in Shanghai

Day 254

We woke, had a hurried bakery breakfast (washed down with coffee and Bailey's for myself), caught a cab to the bus, and we were off. I had knocked on Mike's door but no answer, so it was just Heather and I.

I dozed for a bit on the bus, repeatedly coming very close to actual slumber before the weight of my head nodded down and jostled me awake. At last we reached Shanghai, walked the now familiar streets from bus station to Metro. On the subway two Chinese girls laughed when I said "Dui bu qi" and told me "You sound like a rebbut."

Rabbit? No. Robot. "I know," I said. "I want to be funny." I like perfectly imitating the Pimsleur's narrator voice in Chinese. It's a gas.

We went to the old town part of Shanghai, ate some fresh naan, sequestered ourselves in an antiques complex, pored over miniature wood carvings for a couple hours, eventually walked with over 20 pieces between us. We got another naan to split on the way back and hopped the Metro to meet Llinos.

We all had coffee at a "Mr. Coffee & Mrs. Pizza" chain where they're close to Western refill policy, (while not free, each subsequent cup is half price). Then we proceeded to the basement level of a mall and perused the art exhibition "Get It Louder," made up of installations, animation, graphic design, statues, clothing and documentary films from a collective of young Chinese, Kiwi, German and other Asian Pacific area artists. A couple highlights were an interactive poster that changed imagery with sound (so we spent a few minutes screaming at it) and a short film about Guangzhou. There was also a bar that gave out free Chivas and ginger ale highballs.

Llinos' friend Angela joined us there and then on to Istanbul, a quick walk from that mall, my mental piecemeal map of Shanghai annexing more with each visit. This time around we were treated to the buffet, which all of us agreed was probably the best meal of our dining career. Excellent Turkish cuisine: lamb, chicken, beef (flavorful and tender), eggplant with yogurt, mushroom soup, stuffed grape leaves and peppers, falafel, etc. Llinos ordered a bottle of Chilean Cab Sav, and I requested a hookah be brought out, because if you're going to wear the sash of decadence, you've got to accessorize.

The bellydancer was spot-on and and sporadic, which we were thankful for: the sound system was decibeldelic, shrill, treble heavy. Plus, a foreigner (of suspected Eastern European descent) salivated lecherously whenever she did her routine. He was a disgusting pig-peanut of a man, bottom lip and tongue flopping out, a demeanor that screamed out "part-time paedophile."

The men's bathroom had an overly elaborate Western toilet that was likely heisted from a space program. Resplendent with buttons and lights and instructions labeled: "For women," "to wash hips," "seat and water temperature," etc. I noticed while I was splashing cold water on my face. The restaurant was overly hot despite being below ground, and I had to stand outside for a few minutes to prevent excessive ass sweating.

Angela left us and we walked straight up the road to the bar district I had last been on New Year's Eve (another map annex). This was a little eerie how well I was getting around the bustling metropolis after only a few visits. We ran into trouble trying to give the clubs our patronage. Windows barred us beacuse Heather and Llinos were wearing sandals. Remix led us to a couch, bade us sit, and then told us to move because a larger group came in after us. We told them where to stick it, and ended up at the Kangaroo Bar, a low-key Aussie sports bar tended by Llinos' friend Nathan.

I was craving a shower after spending the whole day walking around and then forced to sit in hot places and marinate. Llinos cabbed us back to hers and we stayed up a few minutes with her Aussie roommate Karen, watched a New Zealand Cops-esque show. The criminal element in every segment was Maori youths drunk and disorderly. It made me think of "Bowling for Columbine" and how the show Cops is designed to be a fear factory always showing minorities behaving badly, fueling suspicion and prejudice. If one were to never to meet a Maori, from television you would deduce that they are all violent drunks that should be feared and avoided. It made me a little sick.

We disassembled couch cushions, laid them on a mattress, fashioned a bunk in the living room corner, blinked away consciousness while cradled in upholstered softness.