[First, I’d bet $100 none of you knows the origin of that song (or even that it existed). I could have used Neil Diamond’s “Solitary Man” but that would have been too easy. All kinds of weird lines in it, like “Oh, sepulchre! My soul is still my body’s prisoner!”]
On my own for Day 3 in Chengdu. After a restless night (maybe too much food and wine the night before), breakfast was the same as usual, with one amusing exception: I set my book on one of the round tables while I went to get my gourmet treats, and when I returned (really, only 5 minutes later) it was gone and two 3-person (naturally) families were sitting at the table. I looked at them quizzically and mimed reading a book. Turns out one of them assumed that someone had forgotten it, and he put it on the front table by the restaurant’s entrance. I retrieved it, joined them, ate, spoke a few words in English to the 12-year-old daughter, and left. Attitude is everything.
For 90 minutes I walked around the neighborhood. I sat on a stone stool on a tree-lined street watching people and writing in my journal.
At one point a guy with his grandchild in the back of his bicycle cart stopped right in front of me so he could tie up the curtains in the warming morning.
I came across a small parking lot that apparently had variable rates, depending on engine size.
The previous day, Ms. X had written in Chinese the names of a few places she thought I’d enjoy visiting this day, so I walked around Chengdu, stopping people at random and showing them what X had written. Eventually I got to this tourist area called something like Broad-Narrow Street. Mobs of people.
In the 60s, a common stereotype – is that redundant? – were Japanese tourists who always had expensive cameras and took each other’s picture in front of this and that and with whomever was around. It’s clearly now the Chinese who’ve adopted this raison d’être. Every few feet someone was posing in front of a statue, door, design, whatever. The guys were always cool and stoic, and the girls, all ages, felt compelled to imitate Vanna White. Once a girl posed as a one-legged Buddhist monk.
There was a guy selling something that looked like little flower corsages.
There was another guy selling homemade cigars. (No, I refrained. I’ve had homemade cigars before, but that’s another story.)
Lots of food everywhere. It’s 1:00 and I’m hungry, of course. I see this little stall where a guy is throwing some dough into a big wok. The dough puffs up, and another guy cuts it open and puts some vegetable-looking stuff inside, then selling the thing for 10 yuan (a little over 60 cents).
I push my way to the front and wave my 10-yuan bill that a third guy grabs. It looks like there’s a choice of 2 fillings: the veggie stuff and some weird looking, raw meat stuff. So just as it’s my turn to get one of these Chinese pita sandwiches, the veggie stuff gets too low and guy #2 has to make up a new batch. He reaches under the counter and pulls out a handful of shredded veggies, then throws a cup of the clearly very spicy red sauce into the same bowl, then a handful of the raw meat stuff. I wonder if I’ve finally made a serious culinary miscue.
He fills my puffed up dough with the new mixture and hands it to me. The other customers around me stop doing whatever they’re doing and watch me. Now I’m really worried. I take a bite, and, yes, it’s a little spicy but I survive. I smile at the crowd, make an “It’s good” face, and they laugh good-naturedly. Ah, gourmet dining in the big city!
I hop in a taxi and head to an unusual (i.e., wild and crazy!) non-tourist shopping area called Lianhuachi to look for a mahjong set. I’m really surprised to hear on the taxi’s radio an English language re-make of the 1960s Kingston Trio song “Seasons in the Sun.” Weird. (Bob F: I wonder if you remember that one.)
Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of tiny shops and stalls cover a 4-square-block area selling all kinds of trinkets, scarves, “cashmere” shawls, wallets, you name it – except no mahjong set. Not even a game shop where I can ask someone. I walk up and down the corridors and streets for an hour. Nothing. My feet hurt, I’m tired, and I decide to catch a taxi back to the hotel. I’m walking along the sidewalk and just after passing 3 shoe stores, all selling the same shoes, I come across a tiny alley (my weakness).
I saunter down the alley for about a block to its end and am rewarded by finally seeing a mahjong set – though 4 old people are using it to play the game. I see that this establishment is a mahjong place, and I decide to investigate by approaching a middle-aged woman who’s sitting at a small table by herself with a computer. She’s gotta be the one in charge. But she doesn’t understand my excellent miming, so I call Tong Jing in Beijing, tell her the situation, and we agree that she’d talk to the woman and explain. I come up to the woman again, holding out my cell phone. Does she take it? No. She looks at it, then looks at me, then nothing. I motion for her to take it. Nothing. I tell Tong Jing to start talking in Chinese, which she does, and I hold the phone up to the woman’s ear.
Finally a conversation begins. But the woman didn’t take the phone, so I had to stoop over her, holding the phone to her ear – for 5 minutes! My back hurts, my arm hurts, but finally she looks up at me with no expression, and I excitedly ask Tong Jing if she can now tell me where to buy a mahjong set. She said that their “conversation” went nowhere because the woman doesn’t speak Mandarin and TJ doesn’t speak whatever the woman speaks. Good grief.
Just as I’m about to give up, this 35-40 year-old guy approaches, frowning, apparently thinking I’m bothering the woman. I quickly tell TJ to start talking and I hand him the phone. Another “conversation” ensues, and after a few minutes, I get the phone back and say, “Well?” TJ said she’s not sure but she thinks he’s going to take me to a store where I could buy a set. He takes a step and motions for me to follow, which I do.
After 10 minutes we arrive at this tiny (6-foot x 6-foot) stall where they had mahjong sets exactly like the ones at the gaming place. My friend discusses the price with the owner for a while, who then writes “100” on a piece of paper. I didn’t want to embarrass my friend so I just nodded my head. The set was in a red box, but they still looked around for a bag. Not finding one, the owner’s wife picks up a bag with something she just bought in it, empties the bag, and puts the mahjong set in it. After forcing my friend to take 10 yuan (he tried hard to refuse it but I insisted), I taxied back to the hotel.
This taxi driver was unique in that he’s the only person I’ve come across who, without provocation, starts criticizing the Communist Party, complaining that they just want to sell cars and don’t care about air quality or people’s health. I get the impression that most people in China don’t think about the Communist Party or any other political stuff. The middle class is busy making money and buying clothes, and the poor people are too busy just squeezing out an existence. The rich people – well, maybe they ARE the Communist Party. Who knows?
Dinner time. I walk around the hotel’s neighborhood and see a few nice looking restaurants, but they don’t have any pictures showing so I shy away from them. Tired, I decide to just get some sushi and go to bed.
On the way to the sushi place, however, I come across…yes, an alley. After a couple minutes stroll there’s this tiny eating establishment (too small to be called an actual restaurant) with a guy making noodles in the window. I don’t see any pictures, so I’m about to move on when a young woman comes out and invites me in. Her head is covered and I deduce that she’s Muslim. I remember that one of my favorite meals in China in 2007 was at a Muslim restaurant, so I go in. Four tiny tables, each with 4 really tiny (4 x 12 inches) stools. I look at the pictures (phew!) on the wall for about 5 minutes, trying to decide which may not be too spicy.
I order, food comes: I chose wisely. At the table in front of me are 3 people: father, mother, and their 30-year-old daughter. They do not look Chinese but some other ethnic group. A little surly looking, rough. All 3 are giving me sideways glances, apparently not happy that I’m there. The daughter now overtly turns 180o on her stool and stares directly at me, then at my journal. (I’m writing.) I smile and hand her the journal, pointing to the writing and saying “English.” She says nothing. Finally she smiles, and she stares uncomprehendingly at the writing. She takes my pen and tries to hand journal and pen to her father, motioning him to write something. He, too, finally smiles, but declines. I give “go ahead” motions to him, sort of insisting, and he ends up taking the journal, flipping to the back page, and writing about 7 or 8 characters, clearly not Chinese but apparently some version of Arabic. At this writing I still don’t know what it says. Anyone out there read “sort of Arabic”?
They leave so now it’s just me and this 90-year-old guy wearing a small, round, white hat. He gets up and stands right next to my table, staring at my journal. We smile at each other, he sits down at his table, I pay the bill, and he high-fives me as I walk out.
Four new friends.
再见
DC's Asian Adventures 