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Published: August 6th 2007
After two weeks on no sleep, Gene and I slept like logs. We woke up late morning feeling refreshed and happy to be operating on our own schedule again. We spent the early hours enjoying our breakfast and each other’s company in the courtyard outside of our room. Neither of us was in any hurry to get started on our day.
When we finally emerged from our hotel, we were immediately confronted by the poor air quality, which obscured nearby buildings from view. Gene commented that never in all his life had he seen even Los Angeles enveloped in so much smog. My friend Liz hit the nail on the head when she told me that the filthiness of China would come as a culture shock to both of us after having spent two weeks in Japan.
Navigating our way through the streets of Beijing, we came upon the massive walls enclosing the Forbidden City, so called because it was off limits for 500 years as home to two dynasties of emperors, the Ming and the Qing. Standing on the corner wondering how to get in, we were approached by a young man who asked if we were looking
for the entrance to the Forbidden City.
“I am headed that same way. Follow me and I will show you the way,” he offered.
Naturally, the gentleman asked where we were from and went on to tell us that he is an artist and would be traveling to L.A. and New York in the next few months for an art exhibit. Not wanting to be impolite, Gene and I agreed to stop in and have a look in the gallery on our way to the Forbidden City.
Once inside, we realized that the guy would make a better car salesman or auctioneer than an artist. To keep our attention, he spoke 25 words per second, dragging us through several displays within the first few minutes. He appeared to take pride in his work and have a general interest in our opinions as to which pieces would appeal most to the Americans. We provided our sincere thoughts on several works, but began to grow weary of the man after he claimed that several “original” pieces, displaying very different art styles and techniques, were his own. We realized that we were being swindled when the guy began laying on
the pressure for us to make a purchase. Tired of being taken advantage of in unfamiliar territory, Gene and I abruptly left the premises.
As we entered through the gates of the Forbidden City, Gene and I were taken aback by the number of people crammed within its quarters. Grabbing a tight hold on our belongings, we joined the long line of pushy tourists waiting to purchase tickets. Sticking out like two sore thumbs, we were clear targets for the homeless who believe all white people to be “rich Americans.” Our patience was already beginning to wane and we had yet to step foot onto the palace grounds.
The day was miserably warm and sunny, which meant that we would have to fend off the hundreds of parasols carried by the Chinese if we were to avoid a good eye stabbing. The grounds were immeasurable and contained numerous halls, ceremonial buildings, bridges and gardens as well as the emperors’ former living quarters. While the Lonely Planet recommends a full day for exploration or several separate trips, Gene and I had had our fill of the Forbidden City in less than two hours. Frustrated by the ill-mannered Chinese and
restrictions on taking photos indoors, we made our way through the swarms of tourists toward the front entrance to catch a glimpse of Tiananmen Square.
Unclear why we chose to travel during Golden Week (a week-long Chinese holiday during which time the majority of China’s 1.3 billion population is on vacation), we settled for smog-filled photos of Tiananmen Square taken from across the street rather than fight the crowds.
Waiting at the corner for the light to change, we were approached by a homeless man on the street corner who shoved the stub of his missing arm in our face before demanding, “Money! Money!” We would come across yet another homeless person showing off his deformities in the hope that pity and money follow. Growing disheartened by the poverty-stricken people around us, Gene decided it would be a good time to sit and unwind over lunch.
Having done my best to avoid Japanese-style toilets at all costs, I was mortified to find nothing more than four holes in the floor and the overpowering stench of urine in the shopping center restroom. Dressed in pants, I came to the conclusion that most Chinese women choose to wear skirts
over trousers because bathroom duties are made easier.
The sport of dropping your pants and, at the same time, trying to maintain your balance and aim while keeping your pants from touching the floor, is a skill mastered only through time and practice. This experience is all the more noteworthy when, after the fact, you realize that there is no toilet paper.
There I was, standing in formal squat position, one hand holding down my pants, the other holding them up. I looked to the left, then to the right…no F@#$%!^(MISSING)&* toilet paper! Trying not to breathe, I accepted my fate and gave the notorious feminine shake. As I exited the stall, I noticed a woman pulling what appeared to be squares of paper from a dispenser on the wall.
So THAT’S what that damn contraption is for… After lunch, Gene and I hopped on the subway to check out Xiushui Silk Market for another bargain bonanza. As expected, the place was an absolute zoo, mobbed with tourists and the most aggressive vendors we had encountered thus far.
China is well-known for its counterfeit merchandise. However, vendors will try to convince you otherwise and sell you
products at four times the price that they are willing to settle on. Gene and I, used to the game, but tired of playing along, walked out of the shop when a girl tried to sell us a t-shirt for 360 Yuan, insisting that it was a name brand shirt. We got no more than a few feet from the entrance when Gene was jerked back by the girl’s sudden grip on his arm. Not wanting to deal with the back and forth chatter, I waited at the next booth. Gene, who saw that I really liked the t-shirt, threatened to leave if she didn’t accept his final offer of 100 Yuan. With bag in hand, we were now lured into shops by several clever vendors who deduced from our purchase that we were willing to spend money.
“Jacket for you, Mister?” bellowed a female from one of the booths.
Gene, hoping to ward off the woman, countered, “Too hot!”
“Then you wear jacket for sun burn,” to girl lipped back.
Impressed by the quick-witted comeback, Gene chuckled. “Good one.”
As we climbed the stairs to the next level, Gene pointed out the Picasso-style paintings
that lined the staircase - they were replicas of the same paintings that the guy from the art gallery tried to pass off as his own earlier that morning.
What an asshole! As we rounded the corner, we passed several fabric shops selling Cheongsams (Chinese-style Kimonos) and custom-made suits. Spotting a mannequin dressed in a sexy Cheongsam, Gene stopped to inquire regarding the cost to stitch me the same dress. The next thing I knew, I had the measuring tape wrapped around my boobs and hips while Gene was arranging a time for my first fitting at our hotel the following morning.
Dinner that night would prove to be a challenge since our hotel was located outside of Beijing’s touristy neighborhoods. Having peeked into several windows, we decided to duck into one of the larger restaurants with several local patrons. We were seated by a Chinese waitress who appeared less than thrilled to have to serve two English-only speaking Americans. With what appeared to be an almost spiteful look, she handed us two pictureless menus and walked off.
Here we go again. Laughing at the idea of finding ourselves in the same situation we thought we had
escaped upon leaving Japan, we stared at our menus, trying to make sense of the listed fare. At a loss, we decided to improvise.
Standing at our table with notepad in hand, the waitress asked, “What kind of soup?”
“No soup,” Gene replied. The girl stood there staring back as us, clearly frustrated. Apparently, all food on the menu is served with a pot of soup. I elected for the “hot soup,” afraid of what I might get if I ordered otherwise. What I didn’t realize was that “hot” referred to a barely edible spicy broth.
Having ordered mushrooms, potatoes and lettuce as the veggies accompanying our main dish of beef, we did not expect to receive three separate plates of raw vegetables and a dish of raw beef. Staring at the preparation before us in utter confusion, the waitress began to hand signal how we were to use the pot of boiling broth to cook our food. Not interested in soggy lettuce, we made beef wraps with the cooked meat and at the other vegetables separate. A group of three employees stared at us in amusement while we consumed our “American-prepared” meals.
We returned to our
hotel that evening to enjoy a drink in the underground bomb shelter-turned bar. Gene studied the surrounding pro-communist wall tiles as I eyed a beetle the size of my head on the ground to make sure it didn’t move. After we finished our drinks, we headed back upstairs to our room where Gene fell fast asleep as I continued to type away at another blog.
Sitting in the silence of our room, I was certain I heard something fall with a thud from the ceiling and was convinced that the beetle came back to find me. I lied awake in bed with the lights on for the next hour or so despite Gene’s persistent demands to turn them out. When the time came that I felt tired enough to doze off, I switched off the lights and all but crawled up onto Gene who was already plastered against the wall.
I scratched myself to slumber, paranoid of lurking bed bugs, only to be woken by the sound of a cat mewing in the middle of the night. Waking Gene in a panic, he had to convince me that the feisty feline wasn’t in our room before we were
both able to fall back asleep.
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darby
non-member comment
the bugs...
are going to get you. actually that wasn't smog, but the communist fumigation policy at work. its the little known bug revolution targeting all the teacher and artist bugs.