Cloudy in Beijing Blogging about my time in China

Tired of you

The family friend I'm traveling with asked me what I thought of Shanghai. I paused, but then was blunt: “It's nothing special,” I said in Chinese.

With him, I saw some more of the city, traveling to Pu Dong, where giant skyscrapers towered over me the whole time. We went to a mall there and I saw a Best Buy and a Toys R' Us. Earlier in the day, we were at coffee shop, where they sold crepes of all things. I remember being there and seeing English, written in what I was black chalk, all across the walls. They were the menu items and specials for the day. Below was the Chinese version, written a bit smaller. Naturally, most of the customers there were foreigners.

I can see how someone would love a place like a Shanghai. It's modern, convenient, with what I hear is a great night-life. The shops are endless and it's easy to make friends from your own country. Apparently all the foreigners live in certain parts of the city depending on the nationality. If you don't know Chinese that well, then Shanghai would be much easier for you to live in and get through.

As for me, I mainly feel “meehh” about the city. I feel too much like I'm in America, which is synonymous with so many things. But to describe better, it's just nothing new to me. I didn't come to China to experience what I could back in the states.

I walked the streets today and I wondered. What did this neighborhood look like 60 years ago? Were these buildings still here? What was in them? What was life like back then?

I wish I could roll back in time, to just observe how things were. I suppose part of me just wants to escape. I think I'm tired of Shanghai. Or maybe I'm just an ass, who can't enjoy himself.

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Me and my family friend were walking through the subway tunnels. An older couple, maybe in their forties, stopped us and asked for directions. The man spoke in a thick accent, from some province I couldn't name. They wondered which subway line to take. My friend pointed in the right direction. Incidently, it was the same way we were going.

But, they didn't follow. As we rode the escalator to the other subway line, the couple, having already seperated from us, trailed off and went some other way. There are numerous signs, both in English and Chinese, all across the tunnels to lead passengers where they need to go. My friend looked back at them, and noted they were heading the wrong direction.

"Shanghai has a lot of illterate people," he said. "A lot of migrants come to the city for work."

He guessed the couple was illterate as well.

In many of China's larger cities, migrants come to work, usually to do manual labor work. One can tell who are city folk and who are from the outside, not just through local accents, but also by what they carry. In the subways, I often saw lone people, who carried one giant sack with them, that they usually haul over their shoulders. The sacks are like a filled and plump garbage bag. My friend told me, for many of these migrants, all they have is what's in those sacks, and in the few other suitcases and backpacks they may carry.

I remember about a month ago seeing the saddest thing. I was outside, in Xi'an train station, waiting in a long-line to buy a ticket. It was cold. I pocketed my hands and stamped my feet every now and then, my teeth quaking. Then I saw a small girl, maybe 6 or 7, walking through the line alone. Suddenly she dropped down to her knees in front of man wanting in line next to me. She then grabbed the bottom of the man's pant and tugged them. She begged, asking for money. She did this for maybe a minute. All the while, the man did nothing, pratically ignoring her. The little girl, then stopped, stood up, and walked somewhere else to where I couldn't see.