This is the one time in the year where Shanghai sleeps, or at least naps. In actual fact, it just closes its eyes for a second. Whatever the definition, it's quiet. That's right it's Chinese New Year time – the festival where for foreigners stranded here not a lot happens.
Most book their escape from the oncoming nothingness months or at least weeks in advance. That of course, is only a microscopic migration when compared to the Chinese one, where just about everyone returns to their home towns to reunite with their families.
As soon as I step outside my apartment building it reminds me of a good old-fashioned end of the world type of scenario, something where every person has vanished off the face of the earth. Unfortunately I have to contain myself from the first obvious impulse of pillaging and looting – as besides having conversations with yourself that's what being the Omega Man is all about.
So I leave my building and as I resist the urge to pillage I notice something extremely rare here: it's quiet... too quiet. There are no abnormally loud conversations going on, no industrial equipment pulverising for pleasure and most telling, no cars. There's always an underlying noise that's more perceived rather than actually heard; the din of traffic, of life going about its business. And now as there is no business, there's also no din.
It's also something that hits your eyes as well as your ears with only the odd soul or two wandering the streets. Maybe like me, thinking they're the only one who has been left behind but they're more likely paying respects to friends and neighbours. The prettily (or the negative amongst us might say, gaudily) package filled with fruit tends to give it away.
It's actually comforting to see that despite the proliferation of flat screen TVs into this society, fruit is still the gift of choice for CNY. That's probably because you can't use a word play with it, unlike an orange, which becomes a proxy for a gift of long life. A Gameboy can't do that – well, not yet anyway.
Besides the inevitable silence (fireworks and crackers not included) of this time of year, the other thing that tends to happen is that something inevitably breaks. As it's winter, where one can enjoy evenings of minus something or rather degrees, my favourite breakage is the heating system.
And one evening that's what happened.
The heating and television died, yet strangely, not all of the lights. The beauty of living in an apartment complex is that all you need to do in response to these problems is pick up the hotline to the doorman sitting (or sleeping) at the building’s entrance. I suppose he’s not really a doorman as he opens nothing, however, he’s less of a guard as he lets everybody in.
So I rang the guy who naps at the front door and said in terrible Chinese that there’s no electricity. This is actually easier than it sounds as long as you know the words for ‘electricity’ and ‘stop’. Actually, he probably had no idea what I was saying but was curious to discover what I was all excitable about. He didn’t realise that it doesn’t take much. Cheese would do it, or even blinking lights.
Eventually an electrician arrived, where he proceeded to do meaningful things like turn the light switch on, off, on, off, on, off, on, off. He also inspected the small switchboard room for the entire floor, accessible just outside my apartment.
So after another turn of the light switch on, off, on, off, he came to the conclusion that the electricity bill had not been paid and someone from that company had taken it on themselves to pull out a couple of fuses. To prove his point he shone his flashlight to the part of the switchboard room that should have contained those very fuses.
It would seem, according Sherlock Electrician, that a worker from the electricity company crept into the switchboard room about 11pm, during the most revered public holiday no less, and stole two out of possible whatever fuses in order to teach me a lesson. No warning, no total switch off (as apparently without paying your bill you can still enjoy lights), nada.
After a long defense of his theory the electrician finally acquiesced to temporarily replacing the fuses until something could be sorted out when life resumed in a week. Funny how the company could send someone over to cause trouble yet was probably closed. Strange no?
Needless to say (but obviously I’ll say it anyway) it sounded like a whole lot of rubbish to me but my main concern was not to let my apartment turn into a freezer. Given the concrete box of my apartment that would take about an hour.
So thinking everything was sorted, you could imagine the joy when the resumption of power lasted for 20 minutes. Perhaps the alarm bells went off at the electricity company and they needed to dispatch another fuse ninja.
Once again on this festive evening the electrician was called. He tinkered in the fuse room briefly and all was well again. Although I didn’t believe his hypothesis I still thanked him for his help in returning things to normal. It’s then he asked for a ‘hong bao’ meaning, a red package.
Traditionally at this time of year people place money in red paper envelopes to give as gifts to family, friends, employees and apparently even people who return your power in the middle of the night. Oh and also, as these are considered gifts they’re not usually asked for. It was brazen. So much so, that as it was out of context I at first didn’t know what he was referring to. I’m slow.
In these instances my mind isn’t so much a computer but more like an abacus slowly being manipulated by a one-arm monkey. However, I eventually got there and I’m pretty sure he would have been aware of that too. My look would have given that away as my p…p…p… poker face is anything but.
You see, at the time my little one-armed monkey abacus was working overtime I was beginning to suspect our handy electrician may have set this all up himself. Ignorant foreigners stranded in the cold may be grateful to have the heat returned – and on a holiday too. They may even pay a reward if prompted. Of course I had no proof, nor the vocab to accuse him. Besides, he knew where my fuses were.
His smile also seemed to recede as my failure or unwillingness to comply with the niceties of the season put a dampener on his evening. Share the cold is what I always.
With little cheer he left and we all (in my opinion) continued the facade of investigating matters further. The electricity provider was called and a worker made an inspection. Surprisingly nothing was amiss.
So I’d say next time I should enjoy this slumber season with an eye open.
6 May 2010
10 December 2009
Clothes maketh the mutt
Not so long ago I thought I had seen Yao Ming. Okay, perhaps it wasn't him as he was only half the size – you know, 6' 8" or something. And as I laid eyes on him I remembered the conspiracy theory concerning the government dropping the one child ban for his parents so they can create multiple Yao Mings.
The plan was to have an entire team out there, populating basketball courts around the world and beating all comers for the glory of the motherland. But it wasn't to be.
Of course, this guy could have been a failed early attempt before they shut the entire program down and moved on to the Jet Li kung fu army program instead. But it soon didn't concern me as my attention quickly wondered from the Yao Ming mini-me failed experiment dude to his dog – and that's where my attention stayed. You see, it was fully clothed.
As you no doubt already know I'm no heathen, so of course I have seen dogs clothed before. A duffle coat here, a cape there but no, this was something special. This was a dog wearing pants... oh, and shoes. Shoes people, shoes. Actually, they looked like trainers as what else would Yao Ming's half developed clone brother have on his dog's feet?
As you are no doubt wandering, the pants were only half pants with strategic spaces cut out where they should be when nature calls. I'd imagine they'd be rather drafty but that could be just me. It looked like a jumpsuit of some variety but I couldn't be sure as I really couldn't take my eyes off those trainers.
This appears to be the latest fad in the Paris of the east. Since my first encounter I've spied a number of these little getups and always with the same result of bemusement on my face. Of course, as my acting skills are a little sub-par I'm sure the look would have verged more on the horrified as I eyeball these little freaks of nature. I'm yet to see uniforms or dog cosplay but it's really only a matter of time before there are little dog butterflies, nurses or warriors roaming the streets.
The closest I have come to that is a farmer dog, although being a small, fluffy white creature I suspected this wasn't a natural look. I might have bought a farmer border collie – perhaps if I was drunk enough – but this looked like a city slicker going country and western.
Either way, a mandatory for the truly serous is the addition of shoes. A good idea given the types of little surprises your feet are likely to encounter on the streets of Shanghai. Although that said, in an effort to rapidly advance into a sophisticated society, public displays of spitting are down – although thankfully not public displays of pouting by Shanghainese girls.
Regardless, there's still a layer of grime that descends from construction craters and mixed with the odd bit of food, drink and I don't know waste, makes for a delicious cocktail you really wouldn't want on your bare feet. Not to say it's in actual fact a cesspool of disgust, it's just a scenario a germaphobe such as myself shouldn't ponder for too long.
So in an effort to prevent their fuzzy child (as let's face it, this is really just the logical evolution of the one-child policy) from bringing in who-knows-what, or subjecting them to a humiliating wipe of the feet when they return home, the potentially more humiliating dog shoes it is. Or perhaps at home they slip into something more comfy such as a pair of tiny slippers.
So what type of dog would allow such a thing to compromise its dignity I hear you ask? It's always the small ones, the ones who don't possess a great deal of dignity in the first place. Basically, something white and fluffy usually does the trick. And without fail, the little critters always cast a look my way and you know, pomeranian or not, there's embarrassment in their eyes. They know they're looking stupid and if they had larger fangs the person responsible was going to pay.
The incidences of these run-ins have increased as we creep closer to Shanghai's answer to Beijing Olympics, the 2010 World Expo – so of course I'm starting to smell a cover up.
You see, this entire dog in jump-suit deal is merely intended to keep eyes off the real menace: the traffic clogging the roads. And clogged roads are not good when you are wanting to play host to a World Expo – it's the world after all. So in its wisdom the government has sent out their little army of costumed mutts to bedazzle and confuse.
And in order to maintain that interest they like to mix things up a little. The latest look for the summer months was the appearance of shaved dogs. Basically, it means that these little creatures have gone from absolute nakedness to outfits in the matter of months. Interestingly they seem more embarrassed by the latter option.
I suppose the only thing left is to spray Expo logos on their naked bellies (much like I saw some patriotic Beijingers get up to in the lead up to the Olympics) then I'll be happy. But I'll only really be impressed if they make sure their dogs are still wearing shoes, as you just can't get better than the naked with shoes combo.
The plan was to have an entire team out there, populating basketball courts around the world and beating all comers for the glory of the motherland. But it wasn't to be.
Of course, this guy could have been a failed early attempt before they shut the entire program down and moved on to the Jet Li kung fu army program instead. But it soon didn't concern me as my attention quickly wondered from the Yao Ming mini-me failed experiment dude to his dog – and that's where my attention stayed. You see, it was fully clothed.
As you no doubt already know I'm no heathen, so of course I have seen dogs clothed before. A duffle coat here, a cape there but no, this was something special. This was a dog wearing pants... oh, and shoes. Shoes people, shoes. Actually, they looked like trainers as what else would Yao Ming's half developed clone brother have on his dog's feet?
As you are no doubt wandering, the pants were only half pants with strategic spaces cut out where they should be when nature calls. I'd imagine they'd be rather drafty but that could be just me. It looked like a jumpsuit of some variety but I couldn't be sure as I really couldn't take my eyes off those trainers.
This appears to be the latest fad in the Paris of the east. Since my first encounter I've spied a number of these little getups and always with the same result of bemusement on my face. Of course, as my acting skills are a little sub-par I'm sure the look would have verged more on the horrified as I eyeball these little freaks of nature. I'm yet to see uniforms or dog cosplay but it's really only a matter of time before there are little dog butterflies, nurses or warriors roaming the streets.
The closest I have come to that is a farmer dog, although being a small, fluffy white creature I suspected this wasn't a natural look. I might have bought a farmer border collie – perhaps if I was drunk enough – but this looked like a city slicker going country and western.
Either way, a mandatory for the truly serous is the addition of shoes. A good idea given the types of little surprises your feet are likely to encounter on the streets of Shanghai. Although that said, in an effort to rapidly advance into a sophisticated society, public displays of spitting are down – although thankfully not public displays of pouting by Shanghainese girls.
Regardless, there's still a layer of grime that descends from construction craters and mixed with the odd bit of food, drink and I don't know waste, makes for a delicious cocktail you really wouldn't want on your bare feet. Not to say it's in actual fact a cesspool of disgust, it's just a scenario a germaphobe such as myself shouldn't ponder for too long.
So in an effort to prevent their fuzzy child (as let's face it, this is really just the logical evolution of the one-child policy) from bringing in who-knows-what, or subjecting them to a humiliating wipe of the feet when they return home, the potentially more humiliating dog shoes it is. Or perhaps at home they slip into something more comfy such as a pair of tiny slippers.
So what type of dog would allow such a thing to compromise its dignity I hear you ask? It's always the small ones, the ones who don't possess a great deal of dignity in the first place. Basically, something white and fluffy usually does the trick. And without fail, the little critters always cast a look my way and you know, pomeranian or not, there's embarrassment in their eyes. They know they're looking stupid and if they had larger fangs the person responsible was going to pay.
The incidences of these run-ins have increased as we creep closer to Shanghai's answer to Beijing Olympics, the 2010 World Expo – so of course I'm starting to smell a cover up.
You see, this entire dog in jump-suit deal is merely intended to keep eyes off the real menace: the traffic clogging the roads. And clogged roads are not good when you are wanting to play host to a World Expo – it's the world after all. So in its wisdom the government has sent out their little army of costumed mutts to bedazzle and confuse.
And in order to maintain that interest they like to mix things up a little. The latest look for the summer months was the appearance of shaved dogs. Basically, it means that these little creatures have gone from absolute nakedness to outfits in the matter of months. Interestingly they seem more embarrassed by the latter option.
I suppose the only thing left is to spray Expo logos on their naked bellies (much like I saw some patriotic Beijingers get up to in the lead up to the Olympics) then I'll be happy. But I'll only really be impressed if they make sure their dogs are still wearing shoes, as you just can't get better than the naked with shoes combo.
Swine on a plane
I suspected I was in a spot of bother just before the plane began its descent into Shanghai. The amount of bother is always relative to the size of the spot and I knew my spot was growing. You see, I had the good fortune of having a fever on a plane, which would not have been an issue a year ago and a huge one four months back. Now it hovers, paranoid, somewhere in between.
So as I tried not to let my teeth chatter I thought I should come clean on my medical form all arrivals had to fill out. I had originally left it blank hoping the bit of warmth radiating from my forehead might escape detection but the oven that replaced it probably wasn't.
I had it planned; I wasn't going to charge off and race my fellow passengers to Immigration. First of all, it's difficult to race Chinese travelers in the best of health and second, if they were going to bag and tag me I'd rather do that in private. No need to panic everyone else I thought.
I did my best to take my time without looking like I was taking my time. You know, for surveillance purposes, as the last thing I really wanted to be stopped for was being swine flu ridden terrorist. But I couldn't put off my march towards the sensors and as soon as that camera caught site of me alarms sounded. Yeah, real alarms, not like a beep of an alarm clock politely reminding you to get up, this was the sound burglars would hear as they realise the job was botched and they had to make a run for it. Obviously I was familiar with this given my vast robbery experience.
If the alarm wasn't enough to startle you into place, the two guys behind the desk leaping up and motioning you towards them might have been. They wanted to see the medical card that I would have filled in honestly, so that's what I gave them.
That was the beginning of a whole lot of “Follow me sir” as I journeyed from one area to the other, carefully guided by the Chinese Immigration Department. The gent who initially spoke to me might have been a doctor as he looked doctorish but he really just could have been a cop, or some dude who they bring out to grunt and furrow his eyebrows. I think 'furrow eyebrow guy' was what it said under his name but I could have been mistaken.
Then I was told to wait, so being a good potential swine flu carrier with both real and electronic eyes trained on me I complied. Besides, they had my passport. I was informed that I was to go to a nearby hospital to be checked for H1N1.
I was given a mask in order to make me as conspicuous as possible so the Air India crew could give me those sorts of looks. It seemed like a dare to me, an encouragement to run over and share the swiney love. But thinking running might be frowned on in the airport I resisted the urge.
From my vantage point just outside the Customs Office I could see into a room full of screens displaying all sorts of people arriving into Shanghai. They were being watched at every vantage point as their temperatures were being monitored. The alarm went off again, a child and his mother, and that got me wondering whether we were all going to be herded together for a hospital trek. I didn't relish that thought, as I had no wish to hang with swine flu infested people.
Because I believed I didn't have it.
The spot of bother didn't quite originate on the plane. I actually suspected there might be trouble the day before in Hong Kong when a fever formed over the course of the day. As not really knowing the symptoms, I was a little more paranoid then. Yes, more so. I didn't want to infect anyone, while painfully aware of the amazingly high density of that city's population.
As I only found myself getting worse, by that evening I thought a hospital visit was in order. It was a typically Hong Kong ordered procession of enter, sanitise hands and put on a mask. The doctor merely confirmed what I suspected – something throat related and not even a hoof in site. Basically, I was there for the meds and so appropriately armed, was out of there quick smart.
And there I thought that was that, with whatever I had beaten into submission via the wonders of modern medicine. Unfortunately, as I sat waiting at the whim of the Chinese Immigration Department I suspected whatever it was I had had a few more rounds to go before we were through with one another.
I was escorted out of the airport through the back. Past the staff only doors, cigarette butt infested corridor and down the elevator to the waiting ambulance. It appeared my chariot was waiting. I piled in and off we went to the hospital, blue lights flashing and all.
The hospital seemed to be the most isolated place you could imagine. Well, I suppose you would want to keep your infected as far away as possible. It didn't help that it looked deserted and on the approach of the ambulance large metal gates had to be opened. Nor did it help that a nurse had to unlock an over-sized bike chain draped around another gate. I supposed it was going to be difficult for me to make a run for it. Obviously the first thing that came out of my mouth was, "How long am I going to be here?"
There was a muffled response of where I was living and the word “tomorrow”.
So there I was in a stark white hospital room with a nurse that looked more like she was ready for radioactive fallout, covered head to toe. The only revealing sign of her humanity were her eyes. It would appear we weren't the only ones there in the vast haunted hospital you could shoot a Japanese horror film in, as there was a voice heard through the intercom on the wall.
So more testing, this time blood – three vials worth – and a couple of DNA swabs. That appeared to be it for haunted bio chemical ready nurse girl and as I was living in Shanghai I discovered was allowed to go home. The bit about “tomorrow” I had heard earlier was that that's when they would contact me if I had contracted H1N1. But if I did have it wouldn't that mean they would have to trace back every person I had contact with? Would they have to quarantine my apartment block? I wasn't entirely sure this was a plan they had thought completely through. Whatever. I had my opportunity to escape the lonely, scary hospital and I was going to take it.
I almost leapt into the waiting taxi and almost didn't care the driver didn't know where I lived and insisted on taking the long way there. Sure it took a good four hours to get home but I don't think I could remember the last time I was so happy to be in a place where I could be sick without triggering alarms.
And to this day, they still haven’t called.
Sounds kind of like my dating life.
So as I tried not to let my teeth chatter I thought I should come clean on my medical form all arrivals had to fill out. I had originally left it blank hoping the bit of warmth radiating from my forehead might escape detection but the oven that replaced it probably wasn't.
I had it planned; I wasn't going to charge off and race my fellow passengers to Immigration. First of all, it's difficult to race Chinese travelers in the best of health and second, if they were going to bag and tag me I'd rather do that in private. No need to panic everyone else I thought.
I did my best to take my time without looking like I was taking my time. You know, for surveillance purposes, as the last thing I really wanted to be stopped for was being swine flu ridden terrorist. But I couldn't put off my march towards the sensors and as soon as that camera caught site of me alarms sounded. Yeah, real alarms, not like a beep of an alarm clock politely reminding you to get up, this was the sound burglars would hear as they realise the job was botched and they had to make a run for it. Obviously I was familiar with this given my vast robbery experience.
If the alarm wasn't enough to startle you into place, the two guys behind the desk leaping up and motioning you towards them might have been. They wanted to see the medical card that I would have filled in honestly, so that's what I gave them.
That was the beginning of a whole lot of “Follow me sir” as I journeyed from one area to the other, carefully guided by the Chinese Immigration Department. The gent who initially spoke to me might have been a doctor as he looked doctorish but he really just could have been a cop, or some dude who they bring out to grunt and furrow his eyebrows. I think 'furrow eyebrow guy' was what it said under his name but I could have been mistaken.
Then I was told to wait, so being a good potential swine flu carrier with both real and electronic eyes trained on me I complied. Besides, they had my passport. I was informed that I was to go to a nearby hospital to be checked for H1N1.
I was given a mask in order to make me as conspicuous as possible so the Air India crew could give me those sorts of looks. It seemed like a dare to me, an encouragement to run over and share the swiney love. But thinking running might be frowned on in the airport I resisted the urge.
From my vantage point just outside the Customs Office I could see into a room full of screens displaying all sorts of people arriving into Shanghai. They were being watched at every vantage point as their temperatures were being monitored. The alarm went off again, a child and his mother, and that got me wondering whether we were all going to be herded together for a hospital trek. I didn't relish that thought, as I had no wish to hang with swine flu infested people.
Because I believed I didn't have it.
The spot of bother didn't quite originate on the plane. I actually suspected there might be trouble the day before in Hong Kong when a fever formed over the course of the day. As not really knowing the symptoms, I was a little more paranoid then. Yes, more so. I didn't want to infect anyone, while painfully aware of the amazingly high density of that city's population.
As I only found myself getting worse, by that evening I thought a hospital visit was in order. It was a typically Hong Kong ordered procession of enter, sanitise hands and put on a mask. The doctor merely confirmed what I suspected – something throat related and not even a hoof in site. Basically, I was there for the meds and so appropriately armed, was out of there quick smart.
And there I thought that was that, with whatever I had beaten into submission via the wonders of modern medicine. Unfortunately, as I sat waiting at the whim of the Chinese Immigration Department I suspected whatever it was I had had a few more rounds to go before we were through with one another.
I was escorted out of the airport through the back. Past the staff only doors, cigarette butt infested corridor and down the elevator to the waiting ambulance. It appeared my chariot was waiting. I piled in and off we went to the hospital, blue lights flashing and all.
The hospital seemed to be the most isolated place you could imagine. Well, I suppose you would want to keep your infected as far away as possible. It didn't help that it looked deserted and on the approach of the ambulance large metal gates had to be opened. Nor did it help that a nurse had to unlock an over-sized bike chain draped around another gate. I supposed it was going to be difficult for me to make a run for it. Obviously the first thing that came out of my mouth was, "How long am I going to be here?"
There was a muffled response of where I was living and the word “tomorrow”.
So there I was in a stark white hospital room with a nurse that looked more like she was ready for radioactive fallout, covered head to toe. The only revealing sign of her humanity were her eyes. It would appear we weren't the only ones there in the vast haunted hospital you could shoot a Japanese horror film in, as there was a voice heard through the intercom on the wall.
So more testing, this time blood – three vials worth – and a couple of DNA swabs. That appeared to be it for haunted bio chemical ready nurse girl and as I was living in Shanghai I discovered was allowed to go home. The bit about “tomorrow” I had heard earlier was that that's when they would contact me if I had contracted H1N1. But if I did have it wouldn't that mean they would have to trace back every person I had contact with? Would they have to quarantine my apartment block? I wasn't entirely sure this was a plan they had thought completely through. Whatever. I had my opportunity to escape the lonely, scary hospital and I was going to take it.
I almost leapt into the waiting taxi and almost didn't care the driver didn't know where I lived and insisted on taking the long way there. Sure it took a good four hours to get home but I don't think I could remember the last time I was so happy to be in a place where I could be sick without triggering alarms.
And to this day, they still haven’t called.
Sounds kind of like my dating life.
Bubble world
I've always harbored the feeling that life here is akin to living in a bubble but it's never been more evident than now. Hermetically sealed from all the global goings on that would have me thinking the sky is falling. But even our little oasis of gaudy neons and fake Louis Vuitton lugging population is not immune to a little downturn. Well after all, if everyone else is doing it, Shanghai will want to get in on it too.
On the shopping strips the turnover of new business isn't as immediate as it once was. Obviously meaning it won't be converted into something completely different in two hours – it's now more like five. Also, 'For Lease' signs are a novel addition to the retail landscape while it's the first time in almost five years I have seen vacant stores.
A number of clubs, bars and restaurants have closed but as this was something that was going on with enough regularity it can hardly be attributed to the tightening of the economy. What's more to blame is an over-catering to a singular group of consumers – technically known to marketers as rich peeps.
Sure, rich peeps possess a lot more money to splash around than your average Mr. and Ms. Wang but not at the same kind of place offering the same over-priced foie gras. Of course, I'm as much of a fan of over-stuffed goose liver as the next guy but even I can tell you it's not a sustainable plan.
I have no doubt that there have been a number of foreign victims of the politely named 'downturn' that gave way to a much more accurate recession. Every business in the export or financial industries have been hit and obviously that's where a lot of the concern, and expulsion, is centered.
This is also more the case of the huge manufacturing and export cities down south with mass migration of its workforce back to their hometowns. There they will await their uncertain future the best way they can and hopefully not consider descent – as the government is fearful idle workers get up to. Well, I know that's what I like to do if I don't have a TV script to work on, so it's fair to think it would be the same for them.
Usually advertising goes the same way and with the larger traditional ones, they are. Many suffer, with their clients shrinking budgets or even deserting, like rats would a sinking ship. Not that I would ever liken clients to rodents but sometimes they smell a loser and don't want to be associated with one when the time comes to re-assess their relationships. They have to jump ship to somewhere and apparently that somewhere at the moment is the company I'm working.
Thankfully the company has become a client magnet with many joining last year but unfortunately the type of client we have attracted has been the ugly type. Perhaps like attracts like or was that opposites attract?
Normally when I complete my weekly timesheets and press 'submit' things generally go according to pre-programmed plan and all is good with the world. However, lately I'm greeted with a message informing me that I have exceeded 60 hours and need to verify that I'm not really just having a laugh at the company's expense.
I'm not talking about submitting totals that are just scraping over the limit mind you, I'm doing my best to double them; so I verify and suspect I'm working a little more than usual. I suppose you know you're in trouble when you find yourself turning off the lights in the office and then turning them on again the next morning.
You tend to believe you might be in deeper trouble when you realise that the clients you are doing this for are quite possibly one of the most mentally challenged group of idiots you have ever had the pleasure of working with.
Surprisingly it was all still navigable, as with experience we creative ad folk obtain arcane advertising skills to overcome some of these obstacles. It's got something to do with conjuring up dead ad guys but I'm not allowed to divulge any more then that. However, what threw me over the edge was that the client would communicate to us in the gibberish language of marketing speak.
Just like French is the language of love this is the dialect of fools, where stupid people can say something and give the appearance of being clever. I don't know if they have actually conducted any tests on this but I believe if a normal person is subjected to this language over the course of months they become violent. That would explain the voices in my head.
One particularly quintessential Chinese advertising experience is working with a celebrity. You name the product and there's usually a famous face telling you how good it is. We had one: thankfully, an established star and not someone who had recently made good and was still dealing with new celebrity. This added another layer of approvals to the process as his people needed to be constantly assured we were treating his image correctly.
Celebrities are ubiquitous in the ad scene, as for many marketers it's a short-hand to create some sort of trust and familiarity by proxy. Sure, that happens everywhere but in a culture that has been drastically interrupted and then forced to catch up with the outside world that need to relate is multiplied. Nobody knows who to turn to in order to lead the way, so that's where the seemingly endless stream of Hong Kong and Taiwan pop idols come in.
Well, at least we used our celebrity with his knowledge, which is not necessarily the case here. So along with piracy of music and movies, there are also no qualms in knocking-off a person's image.
There have been cases in the past where Hollywood stars have been flogging products on television without their knowledge. Bad enough at the best of times, even worse if you have been chosen as the face for erectile dysfunction medication. I suppose if it works for sports stars (and as a bonus it apparently also helps them on the football field) it will work for me. So tune in next month and I'll let you know how well my erectile football goes.
I've also wandered what Angelina Jolie would have made of her face endorsing a local clothing store. Not a brand, just a shop. But she has a way to go until she matches the heights of Liv Tyler, going one better and having a chain of shoe stores named after her.
Fortunately for our star we opted not to take an old publicity shot of him, place it on the body of a monkey and pass it off as a the result of a wonder drink. Actually, that may have looked better than the end result. Oh well, next time.
And so, this is where I find myself, trapped in a bubble of lunacy within the bigger 'we're not in a recession so pass the Moet' bubble of Shanghai. In time both will burst and I can go back to working my 59.5 hours and the timesheet reminder doesn't give me a hard time anymore.
On the shopping strips the turnover of new business isn't as immediate as it once was. Obviously meaning it won't be converted into something completely different in two hours – it's now more like five. Also, 'For Lease' signs are a novel addition to the retail landscape while it's the first time in almost five years I have seen vacant stores.
A number of clubs, bars and restaurants have closed but as this was something that was going on with enough regularity it can hardly be attributed to the tightening of the economy. What's more to blame is an over-catering to a singular group of consumers – technically known to marketers as rich peeps.
Sure, rich peeps possess a lot more money to splash around than your average Mr. and Ms. Wang but not at the same kind of place offering the same over-priced foie gras. Of course, I'm as much of a fan of over-stuffed goose liver as the next guy but even I can tell you it's not a sustainable plan.
I have no doubt that there have been a number of foreign victims of the politely named 'downturn' that gave way to a much more accurate recession. Every business in the export or financial industries have been hit and obviously that's where a lot of the concern, and expulsion, is centered.
This is also more the case of the huge manufacturing and export cities down south with mass migration of its workforce back to their hometowns. There they will await their uncertain future the best way they can and hopefully not consider descent – as the government is fearful idle workers get up to. Well, I know that's what I like to do if I don't have a TV script to work on, so it's fair to think it would be the same for them.
Usually advertising goes the same way and with the larger traditional ones, they are. Many suffer, with their clients shrinking budgets or even deserting, like rats would a sinking ship. Not that I would ever liken clients to rodents but sometimes they smell a loser and don't want to be associated with one when the time comes to re-assess their relationships. They have to jump ship to somewhere and apparently that somewhere at the moment is the company I'm working.
Thankfully the company has become a client magnet with many joining last year but unfortunately the type of client we have attracted has been the ugly type. Perhaps like attracts like or was that opposites attract?
Normally when I complete my weekly timesheets and press 'submit' things generally go according to pre-programmed plan and all is good with the world. However, lately I'm greeted with a message informing me that I have exceeded 60 hours and need to verify that I'm not really just having a laugh at the company's expense.
I'm not talking about submitting totals that are just scraping over the limit mind you, I'm doing my best to double them; so I verify and suspect I'm working a little more than usual. I suppose you know you're in trouble when you find yourself turning off the lights in the office and then turning them on again the next morning.
You tend to believe you might be in deeper trouble when you realise that the clients you are doing this for are quite possibly one of the most mentally challenged group of idiots you have ever had the pleasure of working with.
Surprisingly it was all still navigable, as with experience we creative ad folk obtain arcane advertising skills to overcome some of these obstacles. It's got something to do with conjuring up dead ad guys but I'm not allowed to divulge any more then that. However, what threw me over the edge was that the client would communicate to us in the gibberish language of marketing speak.
Just like French is the language of love this is the dialect of fools, where stupid people can say something and give the appearance of being clever. I don't know if they have actually conducted any tests on this but I believe if a normal person is subjected to this language over the course of months they become violent. That would explain the voices in my head.
One particularly quintessential Chinese advertising experience is working with a celebrity. You name the product and there's usually a famous face telling you how good it is. We had one: thankfully, an established star and not someone who had recently made good and was still dealing with new celebrity. This added another layer of approvals to the process as his people needed to be constantly assured we were treating his image correctly.
Celebrities are ubiquitous in the ad scene, as for many marketers it's a short-hand to create some sort of trust and familiarity by proxy. Sure, that happens everywhere but in a culture that has been drastically interrupted and then forced to catch up with the outside world that need to relate is multiplied. Nobody knows who to turn to in order to lead the way, so that's where the seemingly endless stream of Hong Kong and Taiwan pop idols come in.
Well, at least we used our celebrity with his knowledge, which is not necessarily the case here. So along with piracy of music and movies, there are also no qualms in knocking-off a person's image.
There have been cases in the past where Hollywood stars have been flogging products on television without their knowledge. Bad enough at the best of times, even worse if you have been chosen as the face for erectile dysfunction medication. I suppose if it works for sports stars (and as a bonus it apparently also helps them on the football field) it will work for me. So tune in next month and I'll let you know how well my erectile football goes.
I've also wandered what Angelina Jolie would have made of her face endorsing a local clothing store. Not a brand, just a shop. But she has a way to go until she matches the heights of Liv Tyler, going one better and having a chain of shoe stores named after her.
Fortunately for our star we opted not to take an old publicity shot of him, place it on the body of a monkey and pass it off as a the result of a wonder drink. Actually, that may have looked better than the end result. Oh well, next time.
And so, this is where I find myself, trapped in a bubble of lunacy within the bigger 'we're not in a recession so pass the Moet' bubble of Shanghai. In time both will burst and I can go back to working my 59.5 hours and the timesheet reminder doesn't give me a hard time anymore.
My kingdom for a taxi
As soon as they parked themselves further down the road I knew what they were up to. They were a family of three, they were French and they were going to steal my taxi. I was there earlier and they knew that but they were positioned up-street and just like being up-stream they were going to get first go at whatever was going to flow our way.
Of course there was a chance they were going to be descent and allow me my ride but the fact they weren't making eye contact told me that might be as likely as them handing me a suitcase of cash with a, "Go buy yourself something nice," for good measure. That was pre-guilt guilt if ever I saw it.
Sure, there was a chance, albeit small, that I was wrong and to wag my finger accusingly before any actual wrongdoing would simply make me look as undignified as I really was. Let them find out on the second meeting I always say; the first meeting is only for them to assume it.
There is a certain taxi etiquette in this fair city that sooner rather than later we all learn. The first rule is that it's every man, woman, child and geriatric for themselves. There are of course exceptions, where considerate people will allow others to go first but as I have already met all seven of them everyone else is out to get my ride.
The trick to not letting this unfortunate situation arise is to position yourself higher up the road than your competitors (oh yes, as that's what they are) in order to have first pick. However, one must perform this act as nonchalantly as possible as desperation is simply uncouth.
Those unfortunate others lining the curb, waiting for your taxi just don't exist so if in the unlikely event of any sort of challenge it should come as a complete surprise. And obviously overacting that surprise is par for the course.
When a taxi is in sight you must release your 'wrists of fury', flapping your hand in the most limp-wristed, campest manner possible. This implies that your need for a ride is far more urgent than anyone else's, or that you're ready to fly. Unfortunately when everyone else employs this method this becomes rather a moot point but when in Rome, uh, slip on a toga.
Eventually a taxi does stop and when it does that whole unhurried hurrying to the car door takes place, as while flagging it is one thing, securing it is another. The same goes with charging towards a car disembarking passengers nearby. That usually requires a brisk walk towards the target rather than an all-out bolt.
As soon as the unfortunate taxi comes to s standstill you must hover just outside the door like a crazed axe murderer ready to pounce on a group of scantily dressed sorority chicks. All the better if you do carry an axe as that should hurry the transaction going on inside the car. Obviously, as Murphy's Law would dictate the more urgently you need the taxi or torrential the environment, the slower the passenger will settle their account.
Hopefully you should understand by now that one should never let a little thing like that get in the way of scoring a ride. While the current passenger digs into their seemingly endless wallet in order to locate change, slide into the vacant seat: front if they're in the back or consequently, the back seat if the front is occupied. Besides, if you don't do it there's still a chance someone else might.
Yes, even with you hovering by the door, breathing heavily, someone may slide into a vacant seat pretending not to notice you.
At that point it would be considered impolite to remove them from the vehicle as somehow it was not considered as impolite to steal it in the first place. Given that outcome you would be considered the loser in that encounter and would have to try your luck elsewhere. And that just happened to be my fate as the French family piled into the taxi that should have been mine.
They would have been residents here long enough to know the rules and the behaviour of the victorious as they looked everywhere else but in my direction. I did all I could: stared at their passing taxi as I silently cursed them and the next 30 generations of their offspring, before returning to my limp-wristed taxi waving.
Of course there was a chance they were going to be descent and allow me my ride but the fact they weren't making eye contact told me that might be as likely as them handing me a suitcase of cash with a, "Go buy yourself something nice," for good measure. That was pre-guilt guilt if ever I saw it.
Sure, there was a chance, albeit small, that I was wrong and to wag my finger accusingly before any actual wrongdoing would simply make me look as undignified as I really was. Let them find out on the second meeting I always say; the first meeting is only for them to assume it.
There is a certain taxi etiquette in this fair city that sooner rather than later we all learn. The first rule is that it's every man, woman, child and geriatric for themselves. There are of course exceptions, where considerate people will allow others to go first but as I have already met all seven of them everyone else is out to get my ride.
The trick to not letting this unfortunate situation arise is to position yourself higher up the road than your competitors (oh yes, as that's what they are) in order to have first pick. However, one must perform this act as nonchalantly as possible as desperation is simply uncouth.
Those unfortunate others lining the curb, waiting for your taxi just don't exist so if in the unlikely event of any sort of challenge it should come as a complete surprise. And obviously overacting that surprise is par for the course.
When a taxi is in sight you must release your 'wrists of fury', flapping your hand in the most limp-wristed, campest manner possible. This implies that your need for a ride is far more urgent than anyone else's, or that you're ready to fly. Unfortunately when everyone else employs this method this becomes rather a moot point but when in Rome, uh, slip on a toga.
Eventually a taxi does stop and when it does that whole unhurried hurrying to the car door takes place, as while flagging it is one thing, securing it is another. The same goes with charging towards a car disembarking passengers nearby. That usually requires a brisk walk towards the target rather than an all-out bolt.
As soon as the unfortunate taxi comes to s standstill you must hover just outside the door like a crazed axe murderer ready to pounce on a group of scantily dressed sorority chicks. All the better if you do carry an axe as that should hurry the transaction going on inside the car. Obviously, as Murphy's Law would dictate the more urgently you need the taxi or torrential the environment, the slower the passenger will settle their account.
Hopefully you should understand by now that one should never let a little thing like that get in the way of scoring a ride. While the current passenger digs into their seemingly endless wallet in order to locate change, slide into the vacant seat: front if they're in the back or consequently, the back seat if the front is occupied. Besides, if you don't do it there's still a chance someone else might.
Yes, even with you hovering by the door, breathing heavily, someone may slide into a vacant seat pretending not to notice you.
At that point it would be considered impolite to remove them from the vehicle as somehow it was not considered as impolite to steal it in the first place. Given that outcome you would be considered the loser in that encounter and would have to try your luck elsewhere. And that just happened to be my fate as the French family piled into the taxi that should have been mine.
They would have been residents here long enough to know the rules and the behaviour of the victorious as they looked everywhere else but in my direction. I did all I could: stared at their passing taxi as I silently cursed them and the next 30 generations of their offspring, before returning to my limp-wristed taxi waving.
Duking it out
When you first arrive you're pretty much always greeted with a smile by everyone who crosses your path. Except the customs officer but then I think that's a global thing and these people are hand picked for their inability to sympathise with others. Most of the time you are a curiosity; other times a possible source of income. Whatever the motive, the Chinese are friendly people.
But sometimes they're not.
It really doesn't take that long to see an aggressive act. However these acts rarely come to blows, well not when there are Chinese arguing. Rather, it usually ends up being a stand off where both parties scream at one another.
I guess it's just another great example of the all powerful face and once they're committed to a course of action (usually being wronged in these cases) than it's difficult to back down. That's because there's inevitably an audience to the shouting match.
Arms flail about, gesturing to apparently important objects that prove their side of the story. It's a dramatic performance so understandably witnesses move in closer for a ring-side view. Some will give their opinion – in a shouting, face turning red and spittle flying kind of way. And pretty soon you have a gathering that most likely resembles a family reunion of the likes last seen when the Capulets and Monteguets got together for Christmas.
From the few I've witnessed it seems the women tend to get the loudest. This isn't justified at all when I compare it to the Shanghainese women I know but apparently in the greater Chinese world Shanghainese women have a bad reputation. They're supposed to be bossy, greedy women who have beaten their men into submission. And apparently when not beating their men they're out arguing with anyone who crosses their path.
I rarely see the results of these matches as they just take way too long to get anywhere and my attention span is a good 2 to 3 seconds – on better days. They'll argue even if they were in the wrong, even with witnesses and all.
Case in point was when a friend crossed the street. Pretty simple you would think, even though to cross the street she had to make her way across a bike lane. Although she was in the midst of a conversation, she checked to see who was coming, which was easy to do given these lanes were mono directional and clearly marked as so.
Unfortunately she was knocked over by a man travelling in the wrong direction. Thankfully nothing serious happened but he did have the nerve to argue as to why she would cross the lane without checking for bikes travelling against the traffic in the wrong direction. Sometimes, the bigger arguments (whereby with "bigger" I mean where damage to vehicles or people has occurred) can end with the handing over of cash in order to make amends.
That's the way it's done here – where people will wait, usually with a policeman acting as adjudicator, until a sum is agreed on. And just like an primary school when a single member of the class performed a naughty act, nobody was going home until it was settled.
Sometimes cash can be a means of paying a debt and dropping an issue, as was discovered by an American co-worker.
He was riding his push bike to work one brisk spring morning and was brought to a sudden and rather unpleasant stop (if indeed you call somersaulting and crashing on the footpath unpleasant). So in order to get out of the situation with the least amount of hassle, the driver responsible asked him what he thought was a fair price and, once received, paid it.
Of course sometimes the inevitable does happen and words give way to violence. However, from what I have witnessed and heard these have been primarily between Chinese and westerners, where the art of chest puffing and bluff are not so well refined, or even understood by different cultures. By the way, I'm not saying physical fighting doesn't flair up between groups of Chinese but it seems to be kept quiet. You know, don't air our dirty laundry and such.
For all of the ex-pats who call Shanghai home, from time to time we lapse into what we commonly call a "China moment" (or "China day" if it's particularly long). It's basically when the differences of living here become overwhelming, which gives way to feelings of frustration or even unsolicited bursts of anger. Over time you tend to deal with it a little better, even if the city still finds a way to creep under your skin like a bug in a horror film. If Shanghai was a bug it would be a dung beetle, spending way too much time dealing with crap for it's own good, yet still making it work.
So I could sympathise with the western guy who, while on his bike, had a parking truck edge him out to the point where there was nowhere else for him to go but into the railing separating the road and footpath. It was an inconsiderate act, unfortunately just another in a city that has more than its fair share of them. So he banged on the truck and let out a verbal tirade at the driver as he strode toward the cabin, itching for a confrontation. To the driver this was a challenge and he responded in kind.
Shouting soon gave way to shoving and being smaller, the driver ended up being more of a shove-ee as opposed to a shove-er. This was probably the worst thing the cyclist could have done, as in front of a small, yet growing crowd, the truck driver lost face. He stamped off back to the truck's cabin, seemingly defeated. But lose of face being what it was, he soon emerged clutching a metal rod in order to gain the upper hand.
The cyclist, seeing his victory was a little more short lived than he originally hoped, did the smartest thing he could and vacated the scene quick smart.
I also witnessed an incident at a nightclub where a western guy (usually the common denominator in these types of stories) fuelled with enough alcohol to drown his sense of reason insisted on entering when it was clear he was not wanted. Kindly letting him know this were four bouncers. And true to type they were big boys with necks as wide as their heads and all the charm of a cold-blooded reptile.
At first, the westerner was doing a fine impersonation of a sticky piece of chewing gum that was reluctant to be thrown away. He'd be pushed away and he'd return, shoved back only to come again. Due to their frustration, all this gum impersonating achieved was provoke the bodyguards into more and more aggressive tactics. Things flared up to the point that as soon as they were outside, the unwanted guest was thrown down a small flight of steps. What this chap hoped to achieve by coming at the guards again is beyond me but for his effort he was rewarded with bike security chains.
This seemed enough to change his mind as he was chased amongst the queues of taxis on the street. He soon lost them for two very good reasons: 1. by then he most likely felt he was running for his life and 2. he was being pursued by gorillas as wide as they were tall, so they were more likely built for inflicting damage rather than speed.
In any large city these things happen but considering its size Shanghai is rather peaceful. There aren't a lot of cities in the world where you feel safe walking around at 4am. I should know as I've done that enough. I see it as my sworn duty to petrol the streets at odd hours in order to find out what's really going down. Call it my civic duty if you will.
At whatever time there's always someone around and I don't mean in a creepy way either. Actually, out of respect to my adopted city here I try to keep my creepiness down to a minimum. The Chinese aren't big on creepiness by the way and it never gets you a date. No, I take that back as I've seen plenty of creepy guys on dates with local girls.
What I'm trying to say is that accidents, and the arguing, recriminations and bribes that go with it, happen but violence appears to be a little harder to come by. No, I don't like to seek it but I get the feeling it's a little more difficult to find here but then again it always depends on how hard you look. Of course, that's all dependant on your lifestyle (so I suppose if I was a gangster not able to find violence I wouldn't be doing very well) and general disposition.
Obviously violence happens, as remember you can get anything in Shanghai, but not to the degrees it does in many other places. It seems a good old fashioned screaming match will do the trick for the average, angry Shanghainese.
But sometimes they're not.
It really doesn't take that long to see an aggressive act. However these acts rarely come to blows, well not when there are Chinese arguing. Rather, it usually ends up being a stand off where both parties scream at one another.
I guess it's just another great example of the all powerful face and once they're committed to a course of action (usually being wronged in these cases) than it's difficult to back down. That's because there's inevitably an audience to the shouting match.
Arms flail about, gesturing to apparently important objects that prove their side of the story. It's a dramatic performance so understandably witnesses move in closer for a ring-side view. Some will give their opinion – in a shouting, face turning red and spittle flying kind of way. And pretty soon you have a gathering that most likely resembles a family reunion of the likes last seen when the Capulets and Monteguets got together for Christmas.
From the few I've witnessed it seems the women tend to get the loudest. This isn't justified at all when I compare it to the Shanghainese women I know but apparently in the greater Chinese world Shanghainese women have a bad reputation. They're supposed to be bossy, greedy women who have beaten their men into submission. And apparently when not beating their men they're out arguing with anyone who crosses their path.
I rarely see the results of these matches as they just take way too long to get anywhere and my attention span is a good 2 to 3 seconds – on better days. They'll argue even if they were in the wrong, even with witnesses and all.
Case in point was when a friend crossed the street. Pretty simple you would think, even though to cross the street she had to make her way across a bike lane. Although she was in the midst of a conversation, she checked to see who was coming, which was easy to do given these lanes were mono directional and clearly marked as so.
Unfortunately she was knocked over by a man travelling in the wrong direction. Thankfully nothing serious happened but he did have the nerve to argue as to why she would cross the lane without checking for bikes travelling against the traffic in the wrong direction. Sometimes, the bigger arguments (whereby with "bigger" I mean where damage to vehicles or people has occurred) can end with the handing over of cash in order to make amends.
That's the way it's done here – where people will wait, usually with a policeman acting as adjudicator, until a sum is agreed on. And just like an primary school when a single member of the class performed a naughty act, nobody was going home until it was settled.
Sometimes cash can be a means of paying a debt and dropping an issue, as was discovered by an American co-worker.
He was riding his push bike to work one brisk spring morning and was brought to a sudden and rather unpleasant stop (if indeed you call somersaulting and crashing on the footpath unpleasant). So in order to get out of the situation with the least amount of hassle, the driver responsible asked him what he thought was a fair price and, once received, paid it.
Of course sometimes the inevitable does happen and words give way to violence. However, from what I have witnessed and heard these have been primarily between Chinese and westerners, where the art of chest puffing and bluff are not so well refined, or even understood by different cultures. By the way, I'm not saying physical fighting doesn't flair up between groups of Chinese but it seems to be kept quiet. You know, don't air our dirty laundry and such.
For all of the ex-pats who call Shanghai home, from time to time we lapse into what we commonly call a "China moment" (or "China day" if it's particularly long). It's basically when the differences of living here become overwhelming, which gives way to feelings of frustration or even unsolicited bursts of anger. Over time you tend to deal with it a little better, even if the city still finds a way to creep under your skin like a bug in a horror film. If Shanghai was a bug it would be a dung beetle, spending way too much time dealing with crap for it's own good, yet still making it work.
So I could sympathise with the western guy who, while on his bike, had a parking truck edge him out to the point where there was nowhere else for him to go but into the railing separating the road and footpath. It was an inconsiderate act, unfortunately just another in a city that has more than its fair share of them. So he banged on the truck and let out a verbal tirade at the driver as he strode toward the cabin, itching for a confrontation. To the driver this was a challenge and he responded in kind.
Shouting soon gave way to shoving and being smaller, the driver ended up being more of a shove-ee as opposed to a shove-er. This was probably the worst thing the cyclist could have done, as in front of a small, yet growing crowd, the truck driver lost face. He stamped off back to the truck's cabin, seemingly defeated. But lose of face being what it was, he soon emerged clutching a metal rod in order to gain the upper hand.
The cyclist, seeing his victory was a little more short lived than he originally hoped, did the smartest thing he could and vacated the scene quick smart.
I also witnessed an incident at a nightclub where a western guy (usually the common denominator in these types of stories) fuelled with enough alcohol to drown his sense of reason insisted on entering when it was clear he was not wanted. Kindly letting him know this were four bouncers. And true to type they were big boys with necks as wide as their heads and all the charm of a cold-blooded reptile.
At first, the westerner was doing a fine impersonation of a sticky piece of chewing gum that was reluctant to be thrown away. He'd be pushed away and he'd return, shoved back only to come again. Due to their frustration, all this gum impersonating achieved was provoke the bodyguards into more and more aggressive tactics. Things flared up to the point that as soon as they were outside, the unwanted guest was thrown down a small flight of steps. What this chap hoped to achieve by coming at the guards again is beyond me but for his effort he was rewarded with bike security chains.
This seemed enough to change his mind as he was chased amongst the queues of taxis on the street. He soon lost them for two very good reasons: 1. by then he most likely felt he was running for his life and 2. he was being pursued by gorillas as wide as they were tall, so they were more likely built for inflicting damage rather than speed.
In any large city these things happen but considering its size Shanghai is rather peaceful. There aren't a lot of cities in the world where you feel safe walking around at 4am. I should know as I've done that enough. I see it as my sworn duty to petrol the streets at odd hours in order to find out what's really going down. Call it my civic duty if you will.
At whatever time there's always someone around and I don't mean in a creepy way either. Actually, out of respect to my adopted city here I try to keep my creepiness down to a minimum. The Chinese aren't big on creepiness by the way and it never gets you a date. No, I take that back as I've seen plenty of creepy guys on dates with local girls.
What I'm trying to say is that accidents, and the arguing, recriminations and bribes that go with it, happen but violence appears to be a little harder to come by. No, I don't like to seek it but I get the feeling it's a little more difficult to find here but then again it always depends on how hard you look. Of course, that's all dependant on your lifestyle (so I suppose if I was a gangster not able to find violence I wouldn't be doing very well) and general disposition.
Obviously violence happens, as remember you can get anything in Shanghai, but not to the degrees it does in many other places. It seems a good old fashioned screaming match will do the trick for the average, angry Shanghainese.
The curious case of the blind newsagent
He's probably watching me now, those beady little eyes trained on me like heat-seeking missiles. It wasn't always that case, as when I first met him he was was the nearly blind newsagent around the corner from my apartment complex – the one just down from the smelly drain.
Pushing 70 he sat perched on his stool, surrounded by his magazines and newspapers arranged Herbie Hancock keyboard style around the musician. Everything within reach and most likely in the same arrangement since the chairman (version 1.0) was a boy.
Curiously, one of my first thoughts when seeing locals of such seniority is to wonder just how much they have gone through. What they would have seen and experienced, even the amount of things they would and wouldn't want to remember would boggle my relatively sedately experienced mind.
So there he would perch, unaware I'm picturing him doing his Herbie Hancock impersonation 40 years in the past, staring at a printed page an inch from his face. Now there was a man who had over partaken in his wares and caused his eyes to shut down with one too many printed letters.
If only I possessed a vocabulary superior to the intellectually challenged infant's one I have. I imagined he could tell me every news article ever published since they invented the printing press – if not paper itself. Or perhaps he was more of a trash man and the comings and goings of China's Paris Hilton was his subject of choice. Then I would remember the tendencies of the older generation to rabbit on and my tendency to nod, smile and listen; so I thought it best for me that language barrier remained.
This of course is a perfectly reasonable excuse not to learn a language – "Thanks but no thanks, old people will want to speak with me and I don't know how to say no to them."
So instead, he would great me with a, "Hello, have you eaten?" This would usually be proceeded by him looking up from his close reading and concentrate on my approaching figure, with eyes taking a while to focus. Then a big, almost toothless smile and a chubby fingered wave – the type that if you only added a cloth to his hand you would sparkle up a surface. Each time I would slow my arrival and begin the smiling and waving earlier in order to compensate.
But then things changed. He began sporting shades – oversized ones no less – and thought that was the end of his eyesight as he had become more Stevie Wonder than Herbie Hancock. So of course I found it a little odd he would begin his toothless smile, cleaning wave combo when I was half way down the street.
This then escalated to recognising me in the scant light of dusk and even when I was on the other side of the road. He was beginning to freak me out with his blind man with super eyesight deal so I obviously decided to experiment with just how bionic his eyesight was. Across the road, amongst a crowd, while he was distracted – he'd stop me every time.
Then the dark glasses went but the ability remained. Granted, it was less disconcerting than being spotted half way down the street, across the road and in he dark by a man in his 70s sporting thick, dark glasses. There was only one logical explanation for this and that was happened to be in possession of cyborg eyes as part of a secret government project to have elderly newsagents around the city clock the comings and goings of foreigners.
Also, he may or may not have gained the ability to see into my mind as you just never know what they can devise nowadays. Well as they say: it's better to be safe and paranoid rather than exposed for being a bourgeois intruder and thrown into jail for minding your own own business.
Anyway, now we have returned to our routine of smiling, waving and asking if we have eaten. However, I also pepper good thoughts into the mix as you just never know.
Pushing 70 he sat perched on his stool, surrounded by his magazines and newspapers arranged Herbie Hancock keyboard style around the musician. Everything within reach and most likely in the same arrangement since the chairman (version 1.0) was a boy.
Curiously, one of my first thoughts when seeing locals of such seniority is to wonder just how much they have gone through. What they would have seen and experienced, even the amount of things they would and wouldn't want to remember would boggle my relatively sedately experienced mind.
So there he would perch, unaware I'm picturing him doing his Herbie Hancock impersonation 40 years in the past, staring at a printed page an inch from his face. Now there was a man who had over partaken in his wares and caused his eyes to shut down with one too many printed letters.
If only I possessed a vocabulary superior to the intellectually challenged infant's one I have. I imagined he could tell me every news article ever published since they invented the printing press – if not paper itself. Or perhaps he was more of a trash man and the comings and goings of China's Paris Hilton was his subject of choice. Then I would remember the tendencies of the older generation to rabbit on and my tendency to nod, smile and listen; so I thought it best for me that language barrier remained.
This of course is a perfectly reasonable excuse not to learn a language – "Thanks but no thanks, old people will want to speak with me and I don't know how to say no to them."
So instead, he would great me with a, "Hello, have you eaten?" This would usually be proceeded by him looking up from his close reading and concentrate on my approaching figure, with eyes taking a while to focus. Then a big, almost toothless smile and a chubby fingered wave – the type that if you only added a cloth to his hand you would sparkle up a surface. Each time I would slow my arrival and begin the smiling and waving earlier in order to compensate.
But then things changed. He began sporting shades – oversized ones no less – and thought that was the end of his eyesight as he had become more Stevie Wonder than Herbie Hancock. So of course I found it a little odd he would begin his toothless smile, cleaning wave combo when I was half way down the street.
This then escalated to recognising me in the scant light of dusk and even when I was on the other side of the road. He was beginning to freak me out with his blind man with super eyesight deal so I obviously decided to experiment with just how bionic his eyesight was. Across the road, amongst a crowd, while he was distracted – he'd stop me every time.
Then the dark glasses went but the ability remained. Granted, it was less disconcerting than being spotted half way down the street, across the road and in he dark by a man in his 70s sporting thick, dark glasses. There was only one logical explanation for this and that was happened to be in possession of cyborg eyes as part of a secret government project to have elderly newsagents around the city clock the comings and goings of foreigners.
Also, he may or may not have gained the ability to see into my mind as you just never know what they can devise nowadays. Well as they say: it's better to be safe and paranoid rather than exposed for being a bourgeois intruder and thrown into jail for minding your own own business.
Anyway, now we have returned to our routine of smiling, waving and asking if we have eaten. However, I also pepper good thoughts into the mix as you just never know.
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