City by Day, City by Night: 24 Hours in Shanghai

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City by Day, City by Night: 24 Hours in Shanghai

(Do check out the photos! Located at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/68469976@N07/)

Dawn breaks over the city, though given this foggy morning the sun rays are barely perceptible. The cloudy gray mat enshrouds the city and suddenly I cannot see so far into the distance. Only the hazy of outline of remote buildings remains. It's a rainy Saturday morning, just nine days before the Spring Festival, and yet I, atop this 21 story balcony, can attest that the city by no means lies dormant. The streets are as alive as ever. The rain, the cold, the weekend, the upcoming holiday: these may put a brief damper on the turnings of this sprawling metropolis, but they'll never stamp 'em out.

Each day is a feast for the senses in the city, even a day like today. The natives are perhaps too spoiled or too bored to partake of it, but to the fresh sight of a foreigner, a whole banquet lays stretched out.

I hope then, you'll be as entertained as me as I dedicate 24 hours to China's most modern, developed city. I have tea, a camera, a voice recorder, several layers of clothing, a map and enough gumption, I fancy, to last me until the sun sets and rises once again. I have a loose itinerary for the day that hopefully gives us a healthy spectrum for observation. I have my eyes and ears and a keen enough mind, I hope, to unravel some of the cities less conspicuous characteristics.

So come! Bear witness to these words as I bear witness to a city of 15 million, the famed Paris of the East, my home for the past few months: Shanghai.

•

First activity: breakfast in Jiangpu Park. Claire and Johnny's apartment happens to be situated in the middle of the Shanghai Tobacco Monopoly Bureau, a massive several block complex that takes up a good deal of local work. So the nearby park I am walking to is a pleasant and refreshing juxtaposition. For breakfast, I have British bread and a Danish, cheap delicacies procured from one of Shanghai's many hundred bakeries. I can honestly say that the number of bakeries on any given square block in Shanghai easily matches the number of bakeries in all of Santa Rosa. The business, for whatever reason, simply flourishes.

I sit down in a terraced enclave away from the rain. My hands are freezing but the piping hot tea and pastries help. The surrounding park is well-manicured, but that goes for the city at large; just on my way over here I saw one of the many hundreds of government hired street cleaners, her roaming cart, and her straw fashioned broom.

The park makes an attempt to recall some of Old China. Trees drape over a shallow lake quietly disturbed by the incessant patter of rain. The birds deem this oasis a decent enough home and I can hear them now, though that is not all I can hear. Classic Chinese music resounds from a stereo not too far away. Older Chinese men and women have gathered under an extended archway to carry out morning exercises. Who knows how early they got here. One such man, on his morning rounds, sits next to me and says ni hao. I reply zao, zao (morning, morning) and offer him some of my bread, but he declines. I insist, but it's clear from his smiling, shaking head that he won't have it.

Can you honestly think of a better more endearing location to partake of your breakfast?

The park keeps my attention until 9:30 or so, until I give in to my numbed feet and hand's demand for movement. I depart for the subway.

•

As I walk along this all too familiar road, smell the familiar smell from Shanghai Tobacco (it's not smoke, of course; it is rather a chemical aroma, not terrible, but not exactly welcomed either), and see the familiar storefronts, lampposts and intersections, I cannot help but share with you my express delight in this short and sweet nearly daily commute. It's a 20 minute walk from the apartment to the nearest subway station--25 minutes from the park--and this 20 minutes is a part of the day I almost always look forward to. I get to know the personality of the sidewalk, the faces of the gateway guards; I happily toy with the question: "Where should I cross the street today?" I peer into well-known shops to try and get a glimpse (or even more lucrative: a wave) of the clerks I routinely embarrass myself before.

In Santa Rosa, one lugs around a vehicular beast of burden that constantly requires maintenance, that one must constantly feed with fuel. In Shanghai the idea of travel, epitomized by this promenade, is light, versatile, physically engaging footmanship: preferable to me, and I think most generally healthy individuals. And this idea is, of course, only made possible by the subway, which I have nearly arrived at.

The all too common street side vendors are huddled strategically around the subway entrance, though I think I'll skip steamed yams today. I descend into the bottom reaches of the subway waiting area and give the watch a glance: 9:50, 21 hours to go.

•

I take this opportunity to warm up, brush off and look around. A familiar automated voice comes clear and crisp through the loudspeakers and I find that I have it memorized in both English and Chinese. The subway isn't busy. Even if this was a weekday the morning commute would have passed. No sardines today, or at least, not yet.

The subway is remarkably efficient. It boasts 11 lines all-together; each one may take 2-3 hours to ride clear across. Subway guards stand a floor above me at security, asking the occasional passerby to deposit his suitcase or backpack on the X-ray conveyor. This goes for each and every station. Most natives, even with a bag of conspicuous size, simply walk right through, unconcerned.

In the subway waiting area, in the subway itself, in the bus stops, and in the buses themselves, even in the back of the taxis, one is subject to copious amounts of advertisements, news bits and sports clips from government installed TV's. If one rides public transportation of any kind, this prevalence will form a kind of background audio-visual presence one only pays attention to in passing. Commercials are just as dream-like and ludicrous in China as in America and the news is just as shallow and un-newsworthy. Sometimes I'm quite glad my Mandarin is below par.

Today I'll be taking the purple line 4 that snakes around Shanghai until forming a complete loop. It represents the "inner circle" of the city, and one could safely consider everything inside it "downtown."

I chose this subway not only because it is the one closest and most familiar to me, but because it is one of the two subways in Shanghai that will peak out from its underground catacombs to glimpse the light of day. We're climbing up as I write these very words to an above ground tour of city life that lasts for a full eight stops.

Those who ride the subway vary from farmers carrying the day's labor to business executives sporting leather cases and tailored suits. Who am I riding with today? Well...on this particular subway at this particular time I see young adults, well-dressed, on there way to work or wherever. Most bury their attention within some sort of media device; many gaze stoically into nothingness or sleep; a few read or work. I see a man texting with his IPhone, a great smile on his face. A superbly dressed lady in stilettos contrasts nicely with the half torn advertising beside her. I'll mention quickly that, in keeping with the general cleanliness of the city, I almost never (literally once or twice in Shanghai) see graffiti, on the subway or anywhere.

People ride the subway as if they were by themselves. It's a collective gathering place, but there is trace sense of camaraderie or community. Perhaps interaction will amount to a young man offering older individuals or pregnant women his seat. Friends will, of course, talk amongst themselves. Parents corral their children to sit nicely (zuo hao!) as to ward off strangers' eyes.

But lo! I have arrived at my destination and I'll let the subway ride on, pay it more commentary later. For now: it is time to turn my attention to one of the busiest, largest streets in Shanghai, Nanjing road. Our ultimate destination: the massive Huangpu
river.

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But before this, a question: how does one walk down a street like this?

Well, I can tell you that it is all too easy to let it go by in a flash, or, as one might do with subway, the commute to and from work, or the trip to the local grocery store, let the journey blend together as a mishmash of lights, colors, sounds and people. It becomes impersonal at that point, too big to consider, and one categorizes it away. It becomes boring.

This is not the first time I've been down Nanjing road, and I can already sense the danger of this phenomenon. So I try, consciously, to make it new; it will not be new for me, I must make it new. The street I saw yesterday is not the same street I see today.

Look at the faces in the crowd. Each of them is different: with each person the world was born anew; when one dies, one world will too pass away. Of course, there are sweeping patterns which threaten to encapsulate the masses, but on the fringes of their personalities, in the details of their character, one sees they are in fact individuals.

Look at the buildings on the street. Imagine how they got there, the sheer manpower invested in them, the raw energy and resources necessary to realize their present position in space. Even in the serialized convenient stores--time has worn different tracks on their inner and outer complexions. Think of the astute daily commuter who visits a 7 Eleven (yes, they have 7 Elevens in China) everyday on his way to work. He will tell you without hesitation why his 7 Eleven is in fact much different from that 7 Eleven two blocks away.

It is in aspiring to this level of perception and mindfulness that one learns to walk down Nanjing road.

•

At 11:15 I arrive at our street, the beginning of which is only a short walk from the line 4 subway station. The stream of pedestrians is rather thin at this point, but by the end of my excursion, I'll have swum with street-wide waves of foot-traffic. The scale of my surroundings is still generally humble: the apartments climb to only five or six stories, convenient stores and small-time clothing joints line the streets, and there is no explicitly defined bike lane. I've begun in the downtown neighborhoods where one will still find high schools, relatively cheap housing and a marginally broad, even range of socioeconomic status. I pass by my Russian friend's house. I see the restaurant we frequent and think of the good meals available for only a few USD.

Soon, all this begins to change. The tide rises; the scale expands. One starts to front the fact that Shanghai is an international city, which basically means it is non or beyond Chinese. In walking these streets I can tell you that nothing betrays the fact that this is China, except the people's faces, language and writing. Even when passing by the occasional Buddhist temple, they amount only to tourist traps with stores, stores and more stores literally embedded into them. True, this is downtown, and outside the inner circle signs of independent Chinese culture become more and more apparent. But it's a losing ratio. The West came down like a great sledgehammer on Shanghai, and the mangled remnants of everything traditionally Chinese squeezed out from under it and retreated into the surrounding areas. The hammer then lifted, and what rose in its wake is neither Chinese nor particularly Western--it has long since surpassed the West in terms of the West's defining quality: "modernity." No, my favorite word for describing Shanghai is "grand"--this word does adequate justice to the scale that is now inflated beyond comparison.

•

It is afternoon, and I remark cheerfully to myself: In the past we had mountains that flanked left and right to inspire awe; now, the valley is the great gaping street and the mountains are our skyscrapers. I see vans (the limo of the East, no joke), cars of a generally luxurious variety, buses, colorful taxis, more combinations and permutations of scooters and bikes than I thought possible. The people look very presentable and have their very own over and above ground walkways, just as the bikes have their own lanes and the buses their own stops. Street manners are a myth in Shanghai; indeed if there is a right of way it is accorded to whomever is biggest. I see all the name brand stores (and the incredible malls that house them) that the fake markets try their best to copy: Armani, Rolex, Gucci, Mont Blanc, Ecco, H & M, GAP, American Eagle, Leviis and on and on. I see restaurants, the spectrum of which covers everything but cheap and wholesome put together. I see cranes everywhere as well as the accompanying billboards. They promise future shopping districts that will eclipse the already awesome spectacle unfolding before me.

•

As I near the end of Nanjing road, I make it to the street's culminating quality: a 50 meter wide, one kilometer long pedestrian promenade, wherein the only motor vehicles are feeble trains carting tourists up and down great marble slabs. It is 2:00 and I owe myself a rest, a sandwich and a few moments to sit and absorb the scene before me:

Rain is the theme of the day, but it does not perturb the people's mass procession. Indeed from above, the interlocking umbrellas would seem very much like a river, and rain does not disturb a river's progress but rather encourages it. Likewise, a crowd this large treats the rain like a conquered foe--if anything, it enlivens them.

In the river there are sharks, preying on foreigners, inviting them to go somewhere and purchase something. Massive public TV's above me flash warnings against exactly such scams.

I close my eyes and hear cash registers and conversations, the noise of collective footsteps, and in the distance, police whistles and car horns. The faces I see are generally happy: most are smiling and laughing and seem content with their surroundings. I ask myself: why does this place draw the crowd out even on a day like today?

Certainly, the energy of a crowd in unison is like none other. And the massive malls, brand name stores, and advertising award a form attention to passerby's. On some level the people feel sought after and catered towards; truly, none of these business wonders would exist if it not for you and I, the consumer.

But the real reason the people come here because it is the epitome of the Great Lie. The Great Lie is that they need what is laid so enticingly before them, the frivolities of image (the watches, the designer clothes, the accessories) that cost more than could possibly be sane or healthy. The people come one way or the other for the Lie: those who are wise gaze in aloof wonder at the Lie; most flirt with the Lie, unsure of its validity; a precious few come and believe the Lie--they buy it, quite literally.

•

After lunch, the remainder of Nanjing road delivers me to "the Bund," the signature waterfront in Shanghai. Abreast of the Huangpu river, this area includes the Art Deco, Neo-Classical, and Baroque style buildings that testify to the city's historical European occupation. It contrasts nicely with Pudong's (east of the river district) ultra-modern skyscrapers, one of which is our new destination. It is the epic Oriental Pearl Tower, lying half-visible across the river, broadcasting television signals to millions of city inhabitants. Granted, it isn't the best day for going sightseeing, but I feel my audience could do with at least one example of conventional tourism in Shanghai. And given the weather, we can at least count on an uncrowded viewing deck.

To get there, I indulge in the impossibly hokey and pathetically overpriced "Bund Sightseeing Tunnel," which cuts directly under the river. An open-faced, single compartment tram leads me and a few Chinese tourists down a Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-style light show. Sound effects and pop-out doll props are included. I exclaim my disappointment at being treated like a child to my Chinese trolley mates, but they do not understand me, and seem to have enjoyed themselves anyway.

It is here and in the Pearl Tower itself that I get a glimpse of the multitudinous and completely unabashed tourists traps. Trinket shops are strategically placed for maximum exposure to foreigners. There is an arcade and Disney-style exhibit in the Tower. The elevator operator is required to recite English and Chinese pleasantries and factoids. She must do this all day, go up and down, up and down, seeing the faces that blend into one; can I really expect her to be enthusiastic? Can I really fault her for the empty expression and mechanical tone? This individual is perhaps understandable, I think, but if the city as a whole is really keen on showing the best of what its country has to offer, wouldn't they make an attempt at quality over quantity? Do they even have an idea of what legitimacy is? Aren't they aware that foreigners are laughing to themselves as the "Cheap China" stereo-type confirms itself before their eyes? I see this as an opportunity for national pride. They see a business venture.

I am reminded that the most rewarding experiences in travel are found when nobody is trying to create them.

•

The 100 meter viewing deck offers a panoramic sweep of the city, but the 250 meter view displays nothing but a cloudy white screen. I'm not disappointed: given that China is the next major economic superpower, given that Shanghai is the financial capital of China, and given that the Pearl Tower is one of the tallest buildings in Shanghai, I am in at least some sense standing on the top of the world. Dui ba?

Leaving the Tower, I find that night has fallen on Shanghai.

•

I dine at my 25 year old Russian friend's house. A former co-worker of mine, Arthur the Russian is a misogynistic, perverted, narrow-minded expatriate who, at the same time, is somehow very easy to love. He is a great friend, likable to most everybody he meets, and I enjoy his company despite the apparent character defects. He informs me over noodles and soup that we have been invited to a party.

We depart at 10:00 and my solo excursion becomes a duet.

Outside, the rain is relentless. While officially night in Shanghai, light pollution presents Arthur and I with a hazy, dull orange sky. The taxis are out in force and the bus we take on the way to the party is full enough to leave us standing. The rhythm of the city seems to be that of an incessant throb.

When the people are not at home communing with family, when they are not still entrenched in the office or mired with schoolwork, when they are not traveling or shopping or going to bed early, or entertaining themselves with a quiet book, movie, or otherwise, I suppose they are here, that is, at a party. The sun goes down and Saturday becomes Saturday night, inviting social, chemical and sexual release. This particular party is a birthday party for now 25 year old Carmen. To her apartment she has invited coworkers, close friends, friends of friends, mere acquaintances, native Shanghaiese, Frenchmen, Poles, Moroccans, Russians and Americans--all drunk or drinking, all eager to socialize, all in their twenties and thirties. I am the sole exception to that last criteria of course.

Parties are always great people-watching opportunities.

Arthur and I leave the party, and although invited to go clubbing, we opt for a midnight snack instead. We promise to join them later. The streets have finally wound down, and only an occasional taxi passes by. Restaurants are closed, but a few night-going street vendors sell us barbecue beef and fried noodles. This post-midnight snack runs us a mere 22 RMB. We feast under a bus stop, away from the rain.

Bellies full, we decide it is time to check out the club scene.

The music is loud and simple. Lights of all shades and colors flash across the faces of eager youths. Cigarette smoke mixes with the fog from smoke machines and it is hot, humid and fervent. This is a culture unto itself I realize. Impressionable boys and girls, only recently graduated from adolescence, end up constructing their whole lives around these dreamy and seductive proving grounds. I'm not really sure they know how to have a good time, however. As at the party, people sit and stare with bored or unhappy faces, like they are waiting for something. A surprising amount tap away on their phones.

Dancing is for me a pure form of release, an act one need not think about or process. Let go! I want to say to them. These are not bad looking people, and have a taste for fashion utterly beyond my own sensibilities. But I fear many have missed the forest for the trees.

In any case, I dance until hot and sweaty. The clubs are closing behind our backs when Arthur and I rejoin the the night. It is 4:00 A.M. and he is good enough to stay with me for a few more hours.

Now the streets are really dead. Stores are hollowed out save the 24 hour convenience marts. When the city sleeps, the people are in bed, and everything is still and quiet: this is when two people can really have a conversation. I relish the opportunity to talk openly and honestly without censoring my vocabulary (a rare chance in a foreign country!). I mention some of my future plans and he talks of growing up in Russia.

After an hour of walking we make it to People's Square. Located in the center of the city, the square is home to three different subway lines, the Shanghai Museum and the city's opera house. We two decide to sit amongst these empty, looming wonders and talk until the metro opens.

The Russian gets a monologue going and I am content to rest my legs and listen. He comes to the subject of home.

"Man I am tired of hearing people say they are homesick. I want to tell them: Enjoy your stay here, enjoy the shit which is around you. Because this moment will come and you will live it and never come back. You will see your family, definitely you will see your family, but before that you can do many things."

I ask him if he held the same sentiments when he was eighteen. He tells me he doesn't remember, though he knew he wanted his independence after the two years he spent in an Russian-American exchange program. Keep in mind this is all in a Russian accent.

"When I was working in the States, there was a girl and she was really missing her parents and hometown. Then, we were working in a golf course, next to the ocean and everything was fresh and beautiful. There was green: trees and bushes and grass. There were sand traps and animals and deer running all around. Fuck. Still, she was so upset, which made me upset as well. She would go on and on about parents, her friends, until eventually I just told her to shut up."

I laugh out loud.

"Look what is around you! Right there is the Atlantic Ocean. 'Where are you from?' I ask her. Of course I knew where she was from, but I asked the question anyway. 'Where are you from? And where are you now?' Compare these two things and be happy.

"She says something like, oh, she never saw things that way. Man...how can people be that blind? It's indescribable. Of course, I miss my parents, but I know I will see them again. I know exactly when. The first few days back in Russia will be great, but then what after that? It will be routine. Routine.

"There is nothing I can experience there, nothing to live for. There is nothing I can...structure my mind levels around. Here I am alone and life can move forward. There, with friends and family, it is all the same. It will never change, it is just all the same.

"When people have the opportunity to do some shit, I'm just for that. Why not? You have to because one day you will be forty years old and time will be lost. Day by day you will regret this, because you could have done something and you, well, you.."

My watch beeps: it's 6:00 and the metro is open. He needn't finish; I know what he is going to say. We pick ourselves up and meander down to the subway. It is already getting to be crowded. We quickly realize the reason: nearly everyone is carrying suitcases to the line two, the airport line. It is Spring Festival. People are going home.

We're both taking line 4, but he's going west and I'm going east. My train comes first. Just before the doors close, I see Arthur dance a jig, recalling the night's festivities. I laugh like a madman, and must look like one too. It's 6:15 and I'm too happy and tired to mind the strange looks from fellow Chinese commuters.

•

I nearly lull myself into careless sleep before realizing: I have no time to spare. The sun rose at 6:55 the day before and I promised myself I would return to the exact same spot and the exact same time 24 hours later. Instead of finding ways to kill time, as I had been throughout the day, I now feel the subway is moving impossibly slow. Something is telling me it is terribly important to make it back in time.

Century Avenue...Pudian Road...Yangshupu Road...and finally, Dalian Road. I leap out the subway doors at 6:44 and am prepared to run the 20 minute walk home.

What drove me to such physical exertion at the pinnacle of bodily exhaustion, I am not sure of--but I make it home in just over 5 minutes. Floor 1, 2...8...18...and behold: 21. The elevator doors open, and I step onto the balcony at 6:53, panting.

Shanghai appears the same as I left it.

Grey skies. Busy streets and buses. Rain. The city would continue to turn whether or not I bear witness to its turnings. The dawn would not forsake me even in my soundest sleep, and indeed, that is how it should be.

I stoop down to the 8th floor to wish my host family good morning, to tell them of my adventures, and finally, to retire.

--Chris Stasse
Claire and Johnny's Apartment,
Shanghai

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