We are in Guanzhou, and have been here for several days. It is here that we shall end our trip, and me this journal. Nothing of interest happens at this point, at least nothing I shall tell you.
Our hotel is the White Swan. I could write to you of its placement and its decadence, but I’ll let the promotional materials speak for themselves:
The White Swan Hotel is set on the edge of Shamian Island. Originally a beach on the Pearl River facing the White Goose Pool, Shamian was separated from the mainland in the Qing Dynast and turned into an island which overlooks the River on one side and has the city at its back on the other.
It is very nice here. All the staff of the hotel and all the shopkeepers outside speak English, as this is a hotel where United States parents bring international adoptees on their way out of the country to get the proper certification from the consulate. And Americans are not exactly known for speaking Chinese.
I get a lot of compliments on my speaking from the shopkeepers. A few tell me that I have a Beijing accent. None of them say it believably; everybody’s just trying to make a living.
It is not appropriate to end an adventure without learning something. I have learned the following:
1. Parenting is hard. Do not think that there is wide agreement on what to do. There is not.
2. Great empires grow because the people there do things that are difficult. Great empires die because the people there refuse to do things that are difficult. People in the United States assume that if they go to work and do their job and pay their mortgage that things should just Magically Work Out For Them. Sorry kiddo, but no. Working really hard in something that many people can do is insufficient. Working for a long time is also insufficient. We have to do the things that are difficult to do. That said…
3. Chinese is not a difficult language to speak. Tones are not as hard as you think. Learn how to speak it. Yes, that means you. Now. I write to you from a bastion of Western opulence in the middle of the next great empire. Either you will learn to be a part of it, or outside of it. I have always enjoyed the inside, thanks.
4. Chinese is a difficult language to read and write. It is as hard as you think. Learn how to read and write it anyway. Children here start learning English from the age of six. Even the beggars even know enough to be polite. The least literate person of this century will not be the one who cannot read, but who cannot read fluently in more than one language.
I am among those who did not take 3 and 4 seriously in university, and now I have catching up to do.
Zhe shi Ba. Zai Zhongguo. Zaijian.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
The Pass at Caradras, Part Three
The last portion of our Taiyuan Temple excursion is the Tian Bo, the Heavenly Dragon Mountain. It is decidedly heavenly; it takes nearly a half hour to climb in a van, on a narrow two-lane road. At one point we pass a massive compound and ask what it is. “A cemetery,” Niu Yun replies. That’s right: in China, you cannot be buried on the ground, but you can be buried on the side of a mountain. It’s like being taken straight to heaven!
When we arrive at the top, we are surrounded by junk. Junky restaurants, junky stores filled with, well, junk. There is no sage at the top of the mountain, only capitalists. I am disappointed; even I enjoy places where the market does not exist, even if I am impressed by its invasiveness.
There is a temple. We enter. It is calm, serene. There is no market here; it ends at the door. A division between the sacred and the secular. I look out to the proprietors of the junky little shops. They do an extraordinary job, to run junk shops at the edge of civilization.* I bow nine times to Guan Yin and return to the world.
* The edge of civilization is still in civilization. Dave sees two cell phone towers at the top of the mountain.
When we arrive at the top, we are surrounded by junk. Junky restaurants, junky stores filled with, well, junk. There is no sage at the top of the mountain, only capitalists. I am disappointed; even I enjoy places where the market does not exist, even if I am impressed by its invasiveness.
There is a temple. We enter. It is calm, serene. There is no market here; it ends at the door. A division between the sacred and the secular. I look out to the proprietors of the junky little shops. They do an extraordinary job, to run junk shops at the edge of civilization.* I bow nine times to Guan Yin and return to the world.
* The edge of civilization is still in civilization. Dave sees two cell phone towers at the top of the mountain.
The Pass at Caradras, Part Two
The first temple is unremarkable, though it is very beautiful. I am not, nor have I ever been a student or admirer of architecture; my tastes are likely quite quotidian, even if I find unnecessary ornamentation interesting. Architecture or no, there are several good moments.
To start, within the compound dedicated to a long-deceased governor is the Temple of the Sacred Mother. The sacred mother, that is, of the governor. It is in the middle of a courtyard, and was built a few hundred years after the entire complex to memorialize the woman who raised the man that everybody thought was pretty swell. This reminds me of my own mother, which makes me happy, except that she wouldn’t like the giant wooden dragons that crawl up each of the columns of the temple. I guess even a sacred mother’s temple has her kid’s toys lying all around.
Next to this temple lies a tree. And “lies” is the proper word: if not for another similar tree (Cyprus, I think) and a good deal of manmade support, it would have fallen long ago. Niu Yun tells me the story of this tree, which I herein share with you.
It is called the Male tree; it once had a “wife”, the Female tree. Somebody planted both trees more than two thousand years ago. Several hundred years ago, the Female tree died from a disease, and the next year the Male tree slowly began to fall. But suddenly and without warning, a new Cyprus grew up next to the Male tree to support it.
Niu Yun seems to want me to see the beauty of this story, but all I can think is, “So the Male tree’s a widower for a whole year before he finds a new Babe tree to fall back on? Wow.” Sometimes it is better not to exchange one’s thoughts on culture.
The Chairman sees stairs leading downward towards water and bolts for them. He is caught and regretfully restrained, but on to a good idea. There is a little creek down there, with small stone walkways, a pagoda, and a little stone Buddha sitting beneath water pouring from the wall. I learn that this water bubbles up from a spring that has flowed for over a thousand years. Its water is now, and has been for some time, considered a source of longevity.
I have to touch it. I wait for the Chairman to lose interest (he leaves for the bathroom), then I creep down the staircase to the spring water. There is a crowd in the pagoda; some take pictures while others dip their hands, arms, and head it the water and touch the white head of the grayed stone Buddha. From my position, I can touch the water, but I cannot reach the Buddha; the crowd gestures that I must touch the Buddha. Three times. Three is always better in China. It means that things are finished.
I gingerly make my way across a wet stone walkway in the middle of the creek to arrive at the pagoda. I move through the throng of a dozen or so people, who enthusiastically push me forward. I get to touch the Buddha; I “baptize” him three times. The crowd smiles. I smile. One woman holds a bag filled with water and mandarin oranges. She offers me one. No thanks, I say.
Even I have a limit to enthusiastic participation in cross-cultural experience.
When I get out of the creek, Niu Yun informs me that touching the Buddha three times makes one clever. The water gives longevity. I wonder aloud: does the experience give people longevity and cleverness, or just weed out those who can’t walk carefully on wet stone?
“It’s a melding of philosophies,” says Dave. “Buddhism and Darwinism.”
To start, within the compound dedicated to a long-deceased governor is the Temple of the Sacred Mother. The sacred mother, that is, of the governor. It is in the middle of a courtyard, and was built a few hundred years after the entire complex to memorialize the woman who raised the man that everybody thought was pretty swell. This reminds me of my own mother, which makes me happy, except that she wouldn’t like the giant wooden dragons that crawl up each of the columns of the temple. I guess even a sacred mother’s temple has her kid’s toys lying all around.
Next to this temple lies a tree. And “lies” is the proper word: if not for another similar tree (Cyprus, I think) and a good deal of manmade support, it would have fallen long ago. Niu Yun tells me the story of this tree, which I herein share with you.
It is called the Male tree; it once had a “wife”, the Female tree. Somebody planted both trees more than two thousand years ago. Several hundred years ago, the Female tree died from a disease, and the next year the Male tree slowly began to fall. But suddenly and without warning, a new Cyprus grew up next to the Male tree to support it.
Niu Yun seems to want me to see the beauty of this story, but all I can think is, “So the Male tree’s a widower for a whole year before he finds a new Babe tree to fall back on? Wow.” Sometimes it is better not to exchange one’s thoughts on culture.
The Chairman sees stairs leading downward towards water and bolts for them. He is caught and regretfully restrained, but on to a good idea. There is a little creek down there, with small stone walkways, a pagoda, and a little stone Buddha sitting beneath water pouring from the wall. I learn that this water bubbles up from a spring that has flowed for over a thousand years. Its water is now, and has been for some time, considered a source of longevity.
I have to touch it. I wait for the Chairman to lose interest (he leaves for the bathroom), then I creep down the staircase to the spring water. There is a crowd in the pagoda; some take pictures while others dip their hands, arms, and head it the water and touch the white head of the grayed stone Buddha. From my position, I can touch the water, but I cannot reach the Buddha; the crowd gestures that I must touch the Buddha. Three times. Three is always better in China. It means that things are finished.
I gingerly make my way across a wet stone walkway in the middle of the creek to arrive at the pagoda. I move through the throng of a dozen or so people, who enthusiastically push me forward. I get to touch the Buddha; I “baptize” him three times. The crowd smiles. I smile. One woman holds a bag filled with water and mandarin oranges. She offers me one. No thanks, I say.
Even I have a limit to enthusiastic participation in cross-cultural experience.
When I get out of the creek, Niu Yun informs me that touching the Buddha three times makes one clever. The water gives longevity. I wonder aloud: does the experience give people longevity and cleverness, or just weed out those who can’t walk carefully on wet stone?
“It’s a melding of philosophies,” says Dave. “Buddhism and Darwinism.”
Bree
Each time we approach a change of scenery that suggests a place less grandiose or wealthy than where we have been, somebody says, “So this is China.” As if this is the real China, and the rest is all a show or a movie set.
On the trip to the temples near Taiyuan, we pass through towns I that deserve the name of village. A few hundred people or less. Old-style houses with courtyards. Little community farm plots. Gripping poverty. All of it and more, just a few kilometers from cities bigger than any to be found in my home state. All of it in a country with high rise buildings that scrape an ever lower sky.
It’s all China.
On the trip to the temples near Taiyuan, we pass through towns I that deserve the name of village. A few hundred people or less. Old-style houses with courtyards. Little community farm plots. Gripping poverty. All of it and more, just a few kilometers from cities bigger than any to be found in my home state. All of it in a country with high rise buildings that scrape an ever lower sky.
It’s all China.
The Pass at Caradras
To pass the time in Taiyuan, we visit temples. There isn’t a whole lot to do in that part of Shanxi Province, or, as Andrea says, “if the most exciting thing in Dodge is a double pagoda, we’re gonna go see a double pagoda.” The double pagoda is beautiful but ultimately not at all story-worthy. The other temples we visit, however, are.
We begin the journey by taking an hour or so ride. Normally I choose not to mention our driving. The drivers thus far have all be excellent, strong-silent types, and I have liked each one. But our driver in Taiyuan goes above and beyond the call of duty, and thus his actions deserve mention.
Normally, our drive would take an hour. It involves taking one relatively new road to another relatively new road that leads more or less to our first destination, a temple dedicated to a former governor of the province (and by former, I mean several centuries former.). The first road, however, is under reconstruction, and thus we need to take a detour. We do, straight through the woods to the side of the roadblock.
No, I am not kidding.
The driver takes us off-roading in an eight-passenger van. And he is not alone. Several other drivers follow suit, including a small truck that somehow ends up in front of us. As we approach a place to re-enter the blocked-off roadway (the road, by the by, is totally fine, completely useful, and has almost no workers on it. Yet it is blocked off. Hmmm….), some laborers from a little nearby village appear. We are using their little road onto the main road. They want compensation.
Again: no I am not kidding.
The driver and Niu Yun, along with the drivers of other vehicles, begin bargaining with the villagers. We sit for fifteen or so minutes. All parties strike a deal; Coasian bargaining works even with transaction costs. Yay!
As we pull out of the woods, our driver hands payment to the villagers. Five yuan; a little less than seventy U.S. cents.
[Had I known, I would have offered to pay everybody’s toll, just to get moving. By my reckoning, that little stop cost me seven dollars as is!]
We ride to the main highway. The driver enters the highway. As we approach a toll booth (most, perhaps all?, main highways are toll roads), he turns around and begins to drive backwards on the highway. Let me emphasize this.
He drives backwards on a highway. Got that? Good.
We pull off down an entrance ramp. The driver drives us back around the “roadblock” on the other side of the road. The side where the village isn’t.
The whole point of the exercise is to turn around on the non-village side of the road. He knows this the entire time, but we don’t. “This is why China will rule the world!” Andrea exclaims. Indeed.
That kind of ingenuity to avoid a roadblock? They can do anything.
We begin the journey by taking an hour or so ride. Normally I choose not to mention our driving. The drivers thus far have all be excellent, strong-silent types, and I have liked each one. But our driver in Taiyuan goes above and beyond the call of duty, and thus his actions deserve mention.
Normally, our drive would take an hour. It involves taking one relatively new road to another relatively new road that leads more or less to our first destination, a temple dedicated to a former governor of the province (and by former, I mean several centuries former.). The first road, however, is under reconstruction, and thus we need to take a detour. We do, straight through the woods to the side of the roadblock.
No, I am not kidding.
The driver takes us off-roading in an eight-passenger van. And he is not alone. Several other drivers follow suit, including a small truck that somehow ends up in front of us. As we approach a place to re-enter the blocked-off roadway (the road, by the by, is totally fine, completely useful, and has almost no workers on it. Yet it is blocked off. Hmmm….), some laborers from a little nearby village appear. We are using their little road onto the main road. They want compensation.
Again: no I am not kidding.
The driver and Niu Yun, along with the drivers of other vehicles, begin bargaining with the villagers. We sit for fifteen or so minutes. All parties strike a deal; Coasian bargaining works even with transaction costs. Yay!
As we pull out of the woods, our driver hands payment to the villagers. Five yuan; a little less than seventy U.S. cents.
[Had I known, I would have offered to pay everybody’s toll, just to get moving. By my reckoning, that little stop cost me seven dollars as is!]
We ride to the main highway. The driver enters the highway. As we approach a toll booth (most, perhaps all?, main highways are toll roads), he turns around and begins to drive backwards on the highway. Let me emphasize this.
He drives backwards on a highway. Got that? Good.
We pull off down an entrance ramp. The driver drives us back around the “roadblock” on the other side of the road. The side where the village isn’t.
The whole point of the exercise is to turn around on the non-village side of the road. He knows this the entire time, but we don’t. “This is why China will rule the world!” Andrea exclaims. Indeed.
That kind of ingenuity to avoid a roadblock? They can do anything.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
The growth of Middle Earth
Everywhere we drive I see old buildings torn down and new buildings rising. Even in the poorest villages through which we have passed, this phenomenon occurs. I rarely see such things in my home state of Ohio. Thus do I wonder: is Ohio on its steady-state growth path, or is it merely stagnant? Furthermore, is China “leveling up” to the steady state, or is this what a country with so much labor and human capital, but so little physical capital looks like? And how could the Solow model, so simple in hindsight but so elusive before discovery, keep me awake at night?
My macroeconomics professors were correct to quote Lucas. Once you start thinking about growth, it is difficult to think about anything else.
My macroeconomics professors were correct to quote Lucas. Once you start thinking about growth, it is difficult to think about anything else.
Return of the King
Two days after the Chairman’s arrival, we take a two-hour drive to Victor’s village. Niu Yun arranges for us to visit the orphanage, but having done so, informs Andrea and Dave that the mayor of the town would like to greet Victor and his family when they arrive. The city would like welcome him, then the city fathers (and yes, they’re all men) would like to have lunch with the family. “It’s a village,” I think. “This must be a pretty big deal to a small village.”
Let me disavow you of any misconceptions. When Victor was adopted, his hometown had a mere 80,000 people living in it. Today over 400,000 individuals live there (and yes, you read that correctly). And yet it has the feel of a village. Only three years ago, the only road out to it was a two-lane coal road, not the highway we use to get there. Most of the buildings are low, and there are many of the traditional houses with enclosed courtyards. The streets are uneven and not often paved. And yet it will be as big as Cleveland in a few years. Wow.
When we arrive, a car awaits us at the off-ramp of the highway. It guides us into a town that is growing and prospering, but it is not wealthy. It seems to me that the wealthiest part of town is city hall, though many factories and high rises appear in the works. We are escorted to city hall, where fifteen people, including the mayor, deputy mayors, assorted associates, the dean and administrator of the orphanage, a television reporter and a newspaper reporter flock to us. This flocking phenomenon follows Victor everywhere this day. People touch him, hug him, lift him, pull him, and kiss him. “This is, like, too much!” declares Andrea amazedly at one point. It’s a big city, but it acts like a small town.
As this is Victor’s story, I shall herein keep my remarks to my own very small experience in it.
During lunch, we dine not only with the city officials, but also with the General Secretary of the District. Each official makes a toast to us with “fenjiu”, a locally produced liquor. Let me say that, as the one sitting closest to these officials and of drinking age, I am privy to many side toasts, on topics as diverse as the use of chopsticks to the ancestry of my beloved. I am informed that I like fenjiu more than the Russians or the Japanese, both of whom are big drinkers. We toast to that, too. I believe I engage in nine or ten toasts. Nine is the luckiest number in China; I probably have ten.
Dave makes an excellent toast when presenting each of the officials with a small token of our trip. Then I do something stupid: I, too, make a toast. I will write it here in English, though I attempted parts of it in Chinese:
“In college, my friends and I had a toast we made at every gathering. ‘To the continued wealth of the Republic.’ In thanks for the affection you have shown us, I say to you today, To the Continued Wealth of the People’s Republic!”
Or something like that. After ten toasts, everything everyone says is clever, right?
Let me disavow you of any misconceptions. When Victor was adopted, his hometown had a mere 80,000 people living in it. Today over 400,000 individuals live there (and yes, you read that correctly). And yet it has the feel of a village. Only three years ago, the only road out to it was a two-lane coal road, not the highway we use to get there. Most of the buildings are low, and there are many of the traditional houses with enclosed courtyards. The streets are uneven and not often paved. And yet it will be as big as Cleveland in a few years. Wow.
When we arrive, a car awaits us at the off-ramp of the highway. It guides us into a town that is growing and prospering, but it is not wealthy. It seems to me that the wealthiest part of town is city hall, though many factories and high rises appear in the works. We are escorted to city hall, where fifteen people, including the mayor, deputy mayors, assorted associates, the dean and administrator of the orphanage, a television reporter and a newspaper reporter flock to us. This flocking phenomenon follows Victor everywhere this day. People touch him, hug him, lift him, pull him, and kiss him. “This is, like, too much!” declares Andrea amazedly at one point. It’s a big city, but it acts like a small town.
As this is Victor’s story, I shall herein keep my remarks to my own very small experience in it.
During lunch, we dine not only with the city officials, but also with the General Secretary of the District. Each official makes a toast to us with “fenjiu”, a locally produced liquor. Let me say that, as the one sitting closest to these officials and of drinking age, I am privy to many side toasts, on topics as diverse as the use of chopsticks to the ancestry of my beloved. I am informed that I like fenjiu more than the Russians or the Japanese, both of whom are big drinkers. We toast to that, too. I believe I engage in nine or ten toasts. Nine is the luckiest number in China; I probably have ten.
Dave makes an excellent toast when presenting each of the officials with a small token of our trip. Then I do something stupid: I, too, make a toast. I will write it here in English, though I attempted parts of it in Chinese:
“In college, my friends and I had a toast we made at every gathering. ‘To the continued wealth of the Republic.’ In thanks for the affection you have shown us, I say to you today, To the Continued Wealth of the People’s Republic!”
Or something like that. After ten toasts, everything everyone says is clever, right?
A new member of the Fellowship
Our first day in Taiyuan is dedicated to getting the last member of Andrea and Dave’s family. As we leave the hotel, Victor shows distress through acting out. It is his last day as the youngest, and as the only son. Does he worry he will be loved less? That he is less special now? Possibly, but he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Victor may not be happy, but the Heavens approve: we see blue sky and sun, or at least the forms of sky and sun one gets here in China. I take it as auspicious; later I learn that this weather is fairly common here. We have it most days in Taiyuan.
We drive to the wholly nondescript building that houses the government agency that handles adoptions. During the drive, Andrea and Dave talk about what Taiyuan was like during their last trip and ask our guide what it is like now. “A lot more cars,” Andrea observes.
“Yeah, a *lot* more,” Dave replies.
Niu Yun informs us that Taiyuan now has 2.5 million residents, a rather large city by Western standards. It’s a coal and steel town; the buildings look gritty and somewhat unimaginative. New buildings, however, rise up out of the ground everywhere we look. Dave once joked to me that the national bird of China is the crane. The construction crane. The crane, though, has a long history in China. It stands for longevity, and is the bird that carries your soul to heaven.
Perhaps the ancient Chinese were on to something. Or yet another thing, rather.
At any rate, despite being a large city, it has the remnants of a village everywhere. We can see old houses with courtyards being torn down; people still sell produce and meat from trucks. Andrea asks Niu Yun about development in this area; a curious question, I think, as our guide is neither trained in economics nor from this province. But as long as I have been her student, Andrea has always had an interest in the experience and insight of everyday people. She has also exhibited high expectations for others. These are two of many ways, I think, that I differ from my advisor. I would not ask this question, and were I to hear the answer, I would disregard it as irrelevant. Somehow she finds information where I hear noise.
We arrive after a fifteen or twenty minute drive. And from this moment forward, we leave my story, and we enter the Chairman’s. The Chairman is the newest member of Andrea and Dave’s family, and I lack the Chinese, and he the English, for me to get permission to tell his story. You can ask him in the future, but not today.
I will, however, explain the change in what I call him. He is a trifle demanding; we originally call him the Little Emperor, then the Little General. Napoleon is even up for consideration. After observing him with his brother, and watching how he is dressed a few days later, I dub him Chairman Mao. He’s little, he’s Chinese, he loves red.
And he seemingly has no respect for other people’s property.
Welcome the Chairman!
Victor may not be happy, but the Heavens approve: we see blue sky and sun, or at least the forms of sky and sun one gets here in China. I take it as auspicious; later I learn that this weather is fairly common here. We have it most days in Taiyuan.
We drive to the wholly nondescript building that houses the government agency that handles adoptions. During the drive, Andrea and Dave talk about what Taiyuan was like during their last trip and ask our guide what it is like now. “A lot more cars,” Andrea observes.
“Yeah, a *lot* more,” Dave replies.
Niu Yun informs us that Taiyuan now has 2.5 million residents, a rather large city by Western standards. It’s a coal and steel town; the buildings look gritty and somewhat unimaginative. New buildings, however, rise up out of the ground everywhere we look. Dave once joked to me that the national bird of China is the crane. The construction crane. The crane, though, has a long history in China. It stands for longevity, and is the bird that carries your soul to heaven.
Perhaps the ancient Chinese were on to something. Or yet another thing, rather.
At any rate, despite being a large city, it has the remnants of a village everywhere. We can see old houses with courtyards being torn down; people still sell produce and meat from trucks. Andrea asks Niu Yun about development in this area; a curious question, I think, as our guide is neither trained in economics nor from this province. But as long as I have been her student, Andrea has always had an interest in the experience and insight of everyday people. She has also exhibited high expectations for others. These are two of many ways, I think, that I differ from my advisor. I would not ask this question, and were I to hear the answer, I would disregard it as irrelevant. Somehow she finds information where I hear noise.
We arrive after a fifteen or twenty minute drive. And from this moment forward, we leave my story, and we enter the Chairman’s. The Chairman is the newest member of Andrea and Dave’s family, and I lack the Chinese, and he the English, for me to get permission to tell his story. You can ask him in the future, but not today.
I will, however, explain the change in what I call him. He is a trifle demanding; we originally call him the Little Emperor, then the Little General. Napoleon is even up for consideration. After observing him with his brother, and watching how he is dressed a few days later, I dub him Chairman Mao. He’s little, he’s Chinese, he loves red.
And he seemingly has no respect for other people’s property.
Welcome the Chairman!
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Strider 3.0
If it’s Wednesday, it must be Taiyuan. Thus do we have a new guide, “Celene”. Niu Yun lives and works in Xi’an usually, but is the nearest guide to Taiyuan in Shanxi province. She is cute and demur and very proper; she alone of the guides so far does not complain when I address her formally. She does, however, ask that I call her by her given name. She studied English and French in college, but only remembers English.
I wish I could tell you more about her, but we spend most of our day her in Taiyuan in the hotel, just waiting for paperwork for Ma Ding. To the extent that I can tell you about that process, I shall. In the meantime, the rest of the family is downstairs having dinner, and I am not. Which means, for a whole hour, I am alone. Please excuse me; I have aloneness to ponder.
I wish I could tell you more about her, but we spend most of our day her in Taiyuan in the hotel, just waiting for paperwork for Ma Ding. To the extent that I can tell you about that process, I shall. In the meantime, the rest of the family is downstairs having dinner, and I am not. Which means, for a whole hour, I am alone. Please excuse me; I have aloneness to ponder.
Mirkwood
We leave Beijing for Taiyuan in a torrential downpour. Air traffic controllers delay the flight for one hour; we sit in the plane. I sit not only in the plane, but between Kina and Caitlin, both of whom are bored and restless. It is a very long short flight.
Taiyuan has only recently become an economic development zone. As a coal and steel town, it has some aspects that remind me of Cleveland. It looks industrial. Gritty, really. There is very little ornament. And yet there is some; here sits a double pagoda Buddhist temple of some interest. We shall see it on this trip; Dave and Andrea did not know of it in 2001.
We are in Taiyuan for two reasons: Victor was born here, and Charles “Zhuangzhuang” is here. The latter trumps the former for the moment, but we shall see Victor’s little village soon. We shall also meet Zhuangzhuang.
Some notes at this juncture: I have already met Zhuangzhuang. I shall call him Ma Ding, for reasons you may never learn. Though our meeting is interesting, though his story is fascinating, it is not mine to tell. I shall write it, but you may never read it.
Instead, let me tell you a little about Ma Ding, whom we met yesterday. He is a six-year-old firecracker. Andrea calls him “the little emperor,” as it is fairly clear he has never had to bow to anyone’s rule. Well, kid, that’s about to change. Everybody talks to him, but I believe I am the only one who can really understand anything he says. He has, I believe, picked up on this. He told me today in the car that we are now friends. I’m not sure what I did, but I’ll take it.
“Parenting,” as my friend Liana once wrote, “is hard!” Doubly so, I believe, when the kid was someone else’s, is now yours (or your friend’s), and you speak less of the language than he does. I am so tired by the end of every day with him, and there have only been two. He challenges his parents’ authority; he certainly does not bow to me unless I use both Chinese and force. You’re a little Chinese boy, Ma Ding. Have you read the works of Xiang Yu? I am tempted, but have so far refrained from anything beyond grabbing him.
This is not to say that I do not like him. I do. He is bright and clever and cute; he will make a fine addition to Andrea and Dave’s household. At one point we have a shouting match, and in Mandarin, he calls me “Mr. Fart.” The name sticks; I now refer to myself as Mr. Fart when I really need his attention. I think it’s funny. So does everyone else. Especially Ma Ding.
Taiyuan has only recently become an economic development zone. As a coal and steel town, it has some aspects that remind me of Cleveland. It looks industrial. Gritty, really. There is very little ornament. And yet there is some; here sits a double pagoda Buddhist temple of some interest. We shall see it on this trip; Dave and Andrea did not know of it in 2001.
We are in Taiyuan for two reasons: Victor was born here, and Charles “Zhuangzhuang” is here. The latter trumps the former for the moment, but we shall see Victor’s little village soon. We shall also meet Zhuangzhuang.
Some notes at this juncture: I have already met Zhuangzhuang. I shall call him Ma Ding, for reasons you may never learn. Though our meeting is interesting, though his story is fascinating, it is not mine to tell. I shall write it, but you may never read it.
Instead, let me tell you a little about Ma Ding, whom we met yesterday. He is a six-year-old firecracker. Andrea calls him “the little emperor,” as it is fairly clear he has never had to bow to anyone’s rule. Well, kid, that’s about to change. Everybody talks to him, but I believe I am the only one who can really understand anything he says. He has, I believe, picked up on this. He told me today in the car that we are now friends. I’m not sure what I did, but I’ll take it.
“Parenting,” as my friend Liana once wrote, “is hard!” Doubly so, I believe, when the kid was someone else’s, is now yours (or your friend’s), and you speak less of the language than he does. I am so tired by the end of every day with him, and there have only been two. He challenges his parents’ authority; he certainly does not bow to me unless I use both Chinese and force. You’re a little Chinese boy, Ma Ding. Have you read the works of Xiang Yu? I am tempted, but have so far refrained from anything beyond grabbing him.
This is not to say that I do not like him. I do. He is bright and clever and cute; he will make a fine addition to Andrea and Dave’s household. At one point we have a shouting match, and in Mandarin, he calls me “Mr. Fart.” The name sticks; I now refer to myself as Mr. Fart when I really need his attention. I think it’s funny. So does everyone else. Especially Ma Ding.
Elven archers everywhere!
On our last night in Beijing, we attend the acrobats. Let it suffice to say that we have the same reaction there as we did to the tea house in Chengdu: wow. It is a sight to behold, men stacking chairs three stories high, lifting themselves by a single arm atop the pile. Over a dozen women riding a single bicycle in a circle as they climb around upon each other. Boys who cannot be teenagers flinging themselves through hoops like arrows. It is amazing, and I, for one, am amazed. Most impressive is the theatricity of it all. The choice of music, lighting, and costumes is sometimes over the top, but it all works together to heighten the tension of even the simplest trick. It reminds me greatly of Cirque, but with fewer safety precautions and no singing.
I consider both omissions to be beneficial. Three cheers for Chinese acrobats!
I consider both omissions to be beneficial. Three cheers for Chinese acrobats!
Did Aragorn get a summer cottage in the Grey Havens?
The last remnants of Great Imperial Monuments consume our last full day in Beijing. We begin with the Summer Palace, the emperor’s refuge from April through October. It is a sight to behold, but is not nearly so, well, imperial as the Forbidden City. As we enter, it is clear that this is a place not at all devoted to projecting power, but solely to enjoying it.
The Summer Palace is a compound build around a manmade lake. The lake takes up most of the compound, and if I understand our guide Zhou correctly, most of the compound is the lake. I cannot imagine the countless number of slav—er, ‘workers’ who must have toiled away on that project alone.
And that project is not alone. A reasonable large hall (for state affairs) sits in the entrance way before the lake. And all around the lake stretches the compound.
The compound, for my money, has exactly two points of interest. The first is the Long Hall; the second is the Marble Boat.
The Long Hall is a several-hundred meter open-air hallway. That is not its significant attribute. Nor is its significant attribute that it runs along the manmade lake, though it does. No, the significant attribute is that on each of the several hundred crossbeams of the Long Hall’s ceiling, a different vista of China has been painted. Apparently, some emperor along the way wanted to keep an eye on the kingdom, but he didn’t want to have to travel there. Thus the pictures. Pretty handy if you have enough slav—er, artisans. Sorry. Artisans.
Despite my reaction to the imperialism of the production, I would like to emphasize two things. First, the vistas are truly beautiful; they are the product of immense talent. Second, I don’t know which emperor commissioned these paintings, but I like his style. I’ve always though of pictures and reading as a good substitute for travel, and now I see I’m in good company!
The Marble Boat is a monstrosity on the shoreline of the lake. It was, at some point, a traditionally-styled Chinese boat, but some emperor decided to emulate the West along the way and add a mishmash of European elements that make it look rather silly. The story on the boat is that an emperor decided he wanted a parallel to an old Chinese parable, the contents of which indicate that an emperor is as to his people as a boat is to water. The boat rides atop, above, beyond the water, yet agitated water may tip a boat.
This emperor did not want to be tipped, Zhou tells us. He had his boat built on the shore, and made of untippable marble. I find this hilarious and nearly double over laughing. “What?” Zhou asks.
Don’t you see? If this boat were to ride upon the water…
“It’d sink,” says Andrea.
Indeed. I wonder if the current government of the Middle Kingdom understands the parallel, too.
The Summer Palace is a compound build around a manmade lake. The lake takes up most of the compound, and if I understand our guide Zhou correctly, most of the compound is the lake. I cannot imagine the countless number of slav—er, ‘workers’ who must have toiled away on that project alone.
And that project is not alone. A reasonable large hall (for state affairs) sits in the entrance way before the lake. And all around the lake stretches the compound.
The compound, for my money, has exactly two points of interest. The first is the Long Hall; the second is the Marble Boat.
The Long Hall is a several-hundred meter open-air hallway. That is not its significant attribute. Nor is its significant attribute that it runs along the manmade lake, though it does. No, the significant attribute is that on each of the several hundred crossbeams of the Long Hall’s ceiling, a different vista of China has been painted. Apparently, some emperor along the way wanted to keep an eye on the kingdom, but he didn’t want to have to travel there. Thus the pictures. Pretty handy if you have enough slav—er, artisans. Sorry. Artisans.
Despite my reaction to the imperialism of the production, I would like to emphasize two things. First, the vistas are truly beautiful; they are the product of immense talent. Second, I don’t know which emperor commissioned these paintings, but I like his style. I’ve always though of pictures and reading as a good substitute for travel, and now I see I’m in good company!
The Marble Boat is a monstrosity on the shoreline of the lake. It was, at some point, a traditionally-styled Chinese boat, but some emperor decided to emulate the West along the way and add a mishmash of European elements that make it look rather silly. The story on the boat is that an emperor decided he wanted a parallel to an old Chinese parable, the contents of which indicate that an emperor is as to his people as a boat is to water. The boat rides atop, above, beyond the water, yet agitated water may tip a boat.
This emperor did not want to be tipped, Zhou tells us. He had his boat built on the shore, and made of untippable marble. I find this hilarious and nearly double over laughing. “What?” Zhou asks.
Don’t you see? If this boat were to ride upon the water…
“It’d sink,” says Andrea.
Indeed. I wonder if the current government of the Middle Kingdom understands the parallel, too.
The wondrous items of Middle Earth
[I have lapsed in my posts a great deal; this applies to last Friday. All is now well in Middle Earth. Well, all is now well in regards to that which kept me from writing. As you shall see, all is not well with the adventurers…]
Our day of commerce in Beijing involves two basic goals: to purchase instruments for the children (a cello and a violin, and, if he wants one, a bass for Victor), and to visit the Pearl Market. Let it suffice to say that it is a banner day for capitalism. Mao, stick it in your ear.
We start with the instruments. Zhou has found a music shop that claims to have both violins and cellos of good quality. As Caitlin is not (and shall not be) bigger than a very petite sprite, she requires at largest a 7/8ths cello. Kina shall get a full-sized violin.
I shall not bore you with the particulars of shopping for instruments, especially not instruments whose precise function I do not understand. What I do understand is that the girls feel a little pressured to perform at these places, when all that is really needed is to hear the sound of the instruments. It is the instruments, and not the players, who need to perform here.
This place, this action, though, reveals what China teaches us. The girls seek to explain why they do not play perfectly. This instrument is too big; it is difficult after becoming accustomed to one instrument; we have not practiced in some time. “Stop making excuses, girls. That’s not what they do here,” says Andrea.
She’s right. Just that morning I watched as a two-year-old boy in split pants peed on the sidewalk. But as he did, he counted to five in English, said “hello” and “good-bye”, and responded to “how are you?” I contrast this with the ESL teacher I met at the hotel a few days earlier. We spoke in English; he indicated he was heading to South Korea. “So you speak Korean?” I asked. “Hell no! I’ve lived here six years and I don’t even speak Chinese.” The people of the Middle Kingdom learn what they must, and excuses are inexcusable.
The instruments work out pretty well; I keep myself out of things. It is generally rude, I think, to involve oneself in purchases when one is not footing the bill.
After the instruments, we head for the Pearl Market. It is not merely a pearl market; it is an emporium of everything under the sun. Pearls, antiques, jade, electronics, handbags, clothing. They have it all in spades. Some of it is even real. Joy!
I love places like this. These are the only places I like to bargain. Generally, I don’t like bargaining at all. It’s silly; we have a world of posted prices. There’s no need to talk about it. You tell me what you want for it; I’ll tell you if I want it.
But bargaining here is multidimensional. First, there is the bargaining over the stated price. “Hen gui!” Too expensive, says I. The shopkeeper enters a new number in her calculator. “Renmingbi,” she says, lest I think she’s quoted me a price in dollars. This is my least favorite form of bargaining; it’s too basic. Also, I usually don’t know what a given thing is worth, so I often lose.
The second form of bargaining is over volume. It is often in tandem with the first form of bargaining. I like volume discounts, but I prefer that they be pre-ordained. Except, of course, when the volume includes exotic weapons and ancient coins. Then I enjoy trading in and out this trinket for that and seeing how the price changes. A very valuable method for finding the supply curve, that.
The final form of bargaining, however, is my favorite. It’s very easy: do nothing. Just stand still. If you stand still in an antique shop long enough, staring without intent at nothing in particular, the shopkeeper inevitably opens some nook or reaches below some table and pulls out what you really want to see. And the less impressed you look, the cooler the stuff you get.
The coolest thing, the Thing That I Should Have Bought, was a 100-year-old Chinese sword (I expressed my disinterest, nay, my marked distaste for anything from Japan. That also helped.) made of Damascus steel. For the uninitiated, that means it was hand-hammered hundreds of times from a single sheet of metal. It has a marbled look to it as a result. It could cut through many things. Such as a person. In a car, for example. Or a person in a Toyota pickup truck wielding a hammer. Just sayin’.
The sword stays in Beijing. I buy a smaller artifact. I cannot buy that sword. The owner cannot bargain on it, which suggests that it is the genuine article. And were I to have it, the temptation to use it as the genuine article would be too great.
It is better that it stays behind anyway. It belongs in the hands of someone with even less impulse control than I. Someone who knows what it is good for, and who uses it accordingly. We need fewer hammer-wielding truck drivers, after all.
Our day of commerce in Beijing involves two basic goals: to purchase instruments for the children (a cello and a violin, and, if he wants one, a bass for Victor), and to visit the Pearl Market. Let it suffice to say that it is a banner day for capitalism. Mao, stick it in your ear.
We start with the instruments. Zhou has found a music shop that claims to have both violins and cellos of good quality. As Caitlin is not (and shall not be) bigger than a very petite sprite, she requires at largest a 7/8ths cello. Kina shall get a full-sized violin.
I shall not bore you with the particulars of shopping for instruments, especially not instruments whose precise function I do not understand. What I do understand is that the girls feel a little pressured to perform at these places, when all that is really needed is to hear the sound of the instruments. It is the instruments, and not the players, who need to perform here.
This place, this action, though, reveals what China teaches us. The girls seek to explain why they do not play perfectly. This instrument is too big; it is difficult after becoming accustomed to one instrument; we have not practiced in some time. “Stop making excuses, girls. That’s not what they do here,” says Andrea.
She’s right. Just that morning I watched as a two-year-old boy in split pants peed on the sidewalk. But as he did, he counted to five in English, said “hello” and “good-bye”, and responded to “how are you?” I contrast this with the ESL teacher I met at the hotel a few days earlier. We spoke in English; he indicated he was heading to South Korea. “So you speak Korean?” I asked. “Hell no! I’ve lived here six years and I don’t even speak Chinese.” The people of the Middle Kingdom learn what they must, and excuses are inexcusable.
The instruments work out pretty well; I keep myself out of things. It is generally rude, I think, to involve oneself in purchases when one is not footing the bill.
After the instruments, we head for the Pearl Market. It is not merely a pearl market; it is an emporium of everything under the sun. Pearls, antiques, jade, electronics, handbags, clothing. They have it all in spades. Some of it is even real. Joy!
I love places like this. These are the only places I like to bargain. Generally, I don’t like bargaining at all. It’s silly; we have a world of posted prices. There’s no need to talk about it. You tell me what you want for it; I’ll tell you if I want it.
But bargaining here is multidimensional. First, there is the bargaining over the stated price. “Hen gui!” Too expensive, says I. The shopkeeper enters a new number in her calculator. “Renmingbi,” she says, lest I think she’s quoted me a price in dollars. This is my least favorite form of bargaining; it’s too basic. Also, I usually don’t know what a given thing is worth, so I often lose.
The second form of bargaining is over volume. It is often in tandem with the first form of bargaining. I like volume discounts, but I prefer that they be pre-ordained. Except, of course, when the volume includes exotic weapons and ancient coins. Then I enjoy trading in and out this trinket for that and seeing how the price changes. A very valuable method for finding the supply curve, that.
The final form of bargaining, however, is my favorite. It’s very easy: do nothing. Just stand still. If you stand still in an antique shop long enough, staring without intent at nothing in particular, the shopkeeper inevitably opens some nook or reaches below some table and pulls out what you really want to see. And the less impressed you look, the cooler the stuff you get.
The coolest thing, the Thing That I Should Have Bought, was a 100-year-old Chinese sword (I expressed my disinterest, nay, my marked distaste for anything from Japan. That also helped.) made of Damascus steel. For the uninitiated, that means it was hand-hammered hundreds of times from a single sheet of metal. It has a marbled look to it as a result. It could cut through many things. Such as a person. In a car, for example. Or a person in a Toyota pickup truck wielding a hammer. Just sayin’.
The sword stays in Beijing. I buy a smaller artifact. I cannot buy that sword. The owner cannot bargain on it, which suggests that it is the genuine article. And were I to have it, the temptation to use it as the genuine article would be too great.
It is better that it stays behind anyway. It belongs in the hands of someone with even less impulse control than I. Someone who knows what it is good for, and who uses it accordingly. We need fewer hammer-wielding truck drivers, after all.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
The lidless eye...
I am, unless you cannot tell, already doing poorly. I have failed my beloved, and because of the way that I am, the things that I think and do, I may lose her forever.
I would--nay, will--do anything within my power to avoid this outcome.
To add to my difficulty, I have run mildly afoul of my hosts. They are not angry, but Andrea is rightfully worried about what I post here, especially about the children. This started as a project for me and you, friends and family, not the world. I screwed up, got too excited about the story, opened it to too many people. I need to dial back. For my hosts, I have become the all-seeing Lidless Eye.
And that's too much for any hobbits to bear.
Don't expect any posts for a few days while I figure out where the line is. Also, I won't be posting any stories on the kids' adoption sites. They are not my stories to share.
I would--nay, will--do anything within my power to avoid this outcome.
To add to my difficulty, I have run mildly afoul of my hosts. They are not angry, but Andrea is rightfully worried about what I post here, especially about the children. This started as a project for me and you, friends and family, not the world. I screwed up, got too excited about the story, opened it to too many people. I need to dial back. For my hosts, I have become the all-seeing Lidless Eye.
And that's too much for any hobbits to bear.
Don't expect any posts for a few days while I figure out where the line is. Also, I won't be posting any stories on the kids' adoption sites. They are not my stories to share.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Faramir
What did he do when he hurt Eowyn, deeply? When he made he think that his ties to the stewardship were more important than her? Did he beg forgiveness, offer to fall on his mighty blade, what?
Tomorrow I shall write about our adventures. We went shopping, and I hope to explain how fascinating and alive the commerce was. But not today. Because I have learned recently that I do not have much insight into the feelings of others, and I would be remiss to indicate that I have insight into anything else.
Tomorrow I shall write about our adventures. We went shopping, and I hope to explain how fascinating and alive the commerce was. But not today. Because I have learned recently that I do not have much insight into the feelings of others, and I would be remiss to indicate that I have insight into anything else.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Arnor!
Today I saw blue sky. It was just for a bit, during the ride to the hotel. I lay passed out and clammy in the back of our van, dehydrated and afflicted with heat stroke.
But I saw blue sky! The haze never completely lifted, we could never really see the sun, but our skyline expanded greatly this evening. And it was magnificent. The more Beijing I can see, the more of it there is. But it pales in comparison to clear blue sky.
But I saw blue sky! The haze never completely lifted, we could never really see the sun, but our skyline expanded greatly this evening. And it was magnificent. The more Beijing I can see, the more of it there is. But it pales in comparison to clear blue sky.
Atop the walls of Gondor
We leave the jade factory to drive to our ultimate destination today: the Great Wall of China. I am distracted by my recent decision. Should I have bought more, smaller items? Was this a silly indulgence on my part? Is my credit card frozen again? As I ponder, Andrea discusses income distribution and Social Security with Zhou, the rest of us listen, after a fashion.
Zhou changes the subject and begins to tell us the history of the Great Wall, much of which I know.* The Wall is old; its original foundations date back to 7000 BC, though the bulk of the building takes place in the Ming Dynasty. In case you didn’t know, most of the things that you think of when you think of China—the Wall, vases, the Forbidden City, the Temple of Heaven—were either built, completed, or renovated by the Ming. They were pretty prolific.
She pauses in her story, looking for a new fact with which to regale us. She finds one. “You know,” she intones, “Mao once said, ‘You cannot be a real hero until you have walked the Great Wall.’”
Suddenly I have something to distract me from my mishandled purchases. I will walk to the highest point in sight when we arrive. And then I will come down again. Today, I shall be a real hero, if not a real thrift. Upon arrival, I look up. The goal that I have set is formidable. We can see the topmost watchtower, but not the path to it. I see a pagoda a little lower. The pagoda becomes my goal.
Andrea and Dave immediately indicate that they are not hiking to the top. Nowhere near it. “I am,” I say. “I am going to the top. Who’s with me?” All three children decide to come along.
One might think that this was a bad idea, marching three children under the age of 13 one mile up a mountain and one mile down again. One might think that this would eventually result in the failure of the mission, due to accident or boredom or the capriciousness of youth. I know that, on those first few flights of stairs, I thought it.
But I was wrong.
The children acquitted themselves excellently. Each took a turn as our Fearless Leader as I extolled them to continue marching this day for glory and honor. Often during one of my diatribes on heroism, designed to motivate the kids (and distract myself), they’d interrupt me. “Less talkin’, more walkin’!” shouted Victor at one point, without even turning around. He was our unofficial taskmaster, indicating on more than one occasion that now was the time for climbing, not for stopping, talking, drinking, picture-taking, or anything that didn’t move one’s feet.
The earliest stairs were, obviously, the most crowded. As we moved on, the air thinned imperceptibly, the people quite so. We stop at every watchtower to rest and drink water in the sanctuary of cool stone. I engage an Atlantan in repartee over what form of transit should come for us at the top of the mountain. A helicopter? An ATV? A great blue dragon with bright green eyes? “If you have a cell phone to summon one, I’ll take any of them,” she replies. If I had a cell phone, I would do that for her. She was climbing in heels.
Time passes. The southerner in heels falls behind. “Um, Jared, nobody’s on the stairs,” Kina points out. And she’s right. Except for a couple of young Asian guys quickly approaching us, we are alone. The guys begin to pass us. “Ni hao,” I say as they approach.”
“American?” the younger man responds in a decidedly southern accent. “We speak English.”
The gentlemen are Chris and Phillip, a couple of North Carolinians by way of Guanzhou. They join us on the way up. Like me, they regularly fall behind the children. Fine men both, and we get a picture with them at the end of things.
At each rest point, there are fewer and fewer people. Soon, we are they. We are the resting. No one else comes, save a trickle from above. And nobody under the age of 18, except Caitlin, Kina, and Victor.
I ask the kids if we have reached the pagoda that I wish to visit in lieu of going to the top. “We passed it,” says Kina. “There was a sign back at the last stop.”
There was? Why didn’t you tell me?
“I figured you knew.” Ugh.
Now we have a choice. Do we go to the very top of the mountain, or do we go back to the pagoda? The kids want to see the top. They want to be heroes.
And they are. After another 15 minutes of climbing, we reach the final watchtower. We enter; a family (no children) have a picnic spread out in the corner. “Can we do that?” asks Phillip. “Hang on, let me call for delivery,” I suggest. We laugh.
Victor finds one more upward staircase, with six steps about five inches wide, each about two feet high. It leads to the top of the watchtower. We ascend.
The view is breathtaking. Like Jodi Foster in “Contact”, there are no words. We have conquered the mountain; we pull out our water bottles. I toast the children. They laugh. I take pictures of each of them atop the watchtower of the old Empire.
On the way down we head towards the pagoda. It is Guandi Temple, the significance of which I do not know. When we reach it after a not insignificant or risky climb downward, I bow nine times to the north, three with the head, three at the waist, and three on my knees. We are much higher than the Temple of Heaven, closer than the emperor could ever come to the gods. The sun is out, though it does not penetrate the haze. I am grateful.
There is a path that leads downward from the temple. We know not where it goes. Caitlin and Victor want to climb back up to the Wall, then march down the way we came. Kina and I want to explore the unknown path. Chris and Phillip like both choices, but their aunt shouts up to them indiscriminately through the public address system. We have no time for adventure; we must do what we know. We slowly return to the wall then descend down it.
I would have liked to see what the other path held. I would like to climb the Wall again.** But I am not worried about missing out on the opportunity.
Today we are heroes. And heroes always return.
* Zhou does tell us something that I didn’t know: the individual walls of the city-states that made up China originally were connected to protect the commerce of the Silk Road. Though I hate empire, I do like dedication to trade.
** Phillip and I actually discussed the romance of climbing the wall with our significant others. How we concluded this, sweating, short of breath, and dehydrated I cannot say. Perhaps it was the delirium that sets in with heat stroke.
Zhou changes the subject and begins to tell us the history of the Great Wall, much of which I know.* The Wall is old; its original foundations date back to 7000 BC, though the bulk of the building takes place in the Ming Dynasty. In case you didn’t know, most of the things that you think of when you think of China—the Wall, vases, the Forbidden City, the Temple of Heaven—were either built, completed, or renovated by the Ming. They were pretty prolific.
She pauses in her story, looking for a new fact with which to regale us. She finds one. “You know,” she intones, “Mao once said, ‘You cannot be a real hero until you have walked the Great Wall.’”
Suddenly I have something to distract me from my mishandled purchases. I will walk to the highest point in sight when we arrive. And then I will come down again. Today, I shall be a real hero, if not a real thrift. Upon arrival, I look up. The goal that I have set is formidable. We can see the topmost watchtower, but not the path to it. I see a pagoda a little lower. The pagoda becomes my goal.
Andrea and Dave immediately indicate that they are not hiking to the top. Nowhere near it. “I am,” I say. “I am going to the top. Who’s with me?” All three children decide to come along.
One might think that this was a bad idea, marching three children under the age of 13 one mile up a mountain and one mile down again. One might think that this would eventually result in the failure of the mission, due to accident or boredom or the capriciousness of youth. I know that, on those first few flights of stairs, I thought it.
But I was wrong.
The children acquitted themselves excellently. Each took a turn as our Fearless Leader as I extolled them to continue marching this day for glory and honor. Often during one of my diatribes on heroism, designed to motivate the kids (and distract myself), they’d interrupt me. “Less talkin’, more walkin’!” shouted Victor at one point, without even turning around. He was our unofficial taskmaster, indicating on more than one occasion that now was the time for climbing, not for stopping, talking, drinking, picture-taking, or anything that didn’t move one’s feet.
The earliest stairs were, obviously, the most crowded. As we moved on, the air thinned imperceptibly, the people quite so. We stop at every watchtower to rest and drink water in the sanctuary of cool stone. I engage an Atlantan in repartee over what form of transit should come for us at the top of the mountain. A helicopter? An ATV? A great blue dragon with bright green eyes? “If you have a cell phone to summon one, I’ll take any of them,” she replies. If I had a cell phone, I would do that for her. She was climbing in heels.
Time passes. The southerner in heels falls behind. “Um, Jared, nobody’s on the stairs,” Kina points out. And she’s right. Except for a couple of young Asian guys quickly approaching us, we are alone. The guys begin to pass us. “Ni hao,” I say as they approach.”
“American?” the younger man responds in a decidedly southern accent. “We speak English.”
The gentlemen are Chris and Phillip, a couple of North Carolinians by way of Guanzhou. They join us on the way up. Like me, they regularly fall behind the children. Fine men both, and we get a picture with them at the end of things.
At each rest point, there are fewer and fewer people. Soon, we are they. We are the resting. No one else comes, save a trickle from above. And nobody under the age of 18, except Caitlin, Kina, and Victor.
I ask the kids if we have reached the pagoda that I wish to visit in lieu of going to the top. “We passed it,” says Kina. “There was a sign back at the last stop.”
There was? Why didn’t you tell me?
“I figured you knew.” Ugh.
Now we have a choice. Do we go to the very top of the mountain, or do we go back to the pagoda? The kids want to see the top. They want to be heroes.
And they are. After another 15 minutes of climbing, we reach the final watchtower. We enter; a family (no children) have a picnic spread out in the corner. “Can we do that?” asks Phillip. “Hang on, let me call for delivery,” I suggest. We laugh.
Victor finds one more upward staircase, with six steps about five inches wide, each about two feet high. It leads to the top of the watchtower. We ascend.
The view is breathtaking. Like Jodi Foster in “Contact”, there are no words. We have conquered the mountain; we pull out our water bottles. I toast the children. They laugh. I take pictures of each of them atop the watchtower of the old Empire.
On the way down we head towards the pagoda. It is Guandi Temple, the significance of which I do not know. When we reach it after a not insignificant or risky climb downward, I bow nine times to the north, three with the head, three at the waist, and three on my knees. We are much higher than the Temple of Heaven, closer than the emperor could ever come to the gods. The sun is out, though it does not penetrate the haze. I am grateful.
There is a path that leads downward from the temple. We know not where it goes. Caitlin and Victor want to climb back up to the Wall, then march down the way we came. Kina and I want to explore the unknown path. Chris and Phillip like both choices, but their aunt shouts up to them indiscriminately through the public address system. We have no time for adventure; we must do what we know. We slowly return to the wall then descend down it.
I would have liked to see what the other path held. I would like to climb the Wall again.** But I am not worried about missing out on the opportunity.
Today we are heroes. And heroes always return.
* Zhou does tell us something that I didn’t know: the individual walls of the city-states that made up China originally were connected to protect the commerce of the Silk Road. Though I hate empire, I do like dedication to trade.
** Phillip and I actually discussed the romance of climbing the wall with our significant others. How we concluded this, sweating, short of breath, and dehydrated I cannot say. Perhaps it was the delirium that sets in with heat stroke.
The dwarves delved too greedily and too deep.
On our way to the Great Wall of China, we visited a jade factory. Upon arrival at the factory, several workers station themselves outside the door. They largely follow us and other tourists as we move through the factory, first viewing the production of the jade items, then listening to a brief tutorial on how to tell real jade from the many knockoffs sold around the country, and finally onto the showroom floor, where many authentic jade items are on sale for prices ranging from a few dollars to a few hundred thousand dollars.
To see the carving of jade live is quite interesting. The little blade rotates, bathed constantly in water to keep it cool. More surprising to me was the lack of safety equipment for the artisans. They had no gloves (understandable), no eye protection (again, understandable, though very risky), and lastly no masks (bwuh?). I understand the importance of personally handling the items, and that the masks could become clouded and difficult to work through, though I suspect that this concern is limited merely by our ability to peer through the glass to the workers as jade dust settled on the floor. But the masks really disturb me. Given the incredibly small cost of a mask and what I would think is the high cost of having a fairly skilled worker miss time due to pulmonary malfunction, I’d shell out for the masks. Perhaps the fact that the factory has not indicates that there is information I do not have.
[Learning how to tell fake jade from real jade: educational and practical! For starters, real hard jade, or jadite, makes a sound like cut crystal when struck. Furthermore, jade is a mineral, so when held up to light, it should be neither perfectly clear nor uniform, but rather translucent and exhibit crystalline patterns within the piece. Finally, jade is harder than glass. It can scratch glass without any damage to the item. Good to know, yes?]
The showroom is my downfall.
I begin by looking for tasteful pieces. Simple pieces. Inexpensive pieces. But I do not have inexpensive tastes. I find a traditional piece that I like, a “happiness ball”, which stands for the successive generations of a happy family. A “peaceful” wheel. A Guan Yin. I cannot stop myself.
All told, I find $6,300 of things I want to own.
In the end, I part with everything but three simple pieces. Two of them are fairly expensive. One of them is not so, though it is very intricate and very meaningful to me. The bill comes to $2,600 after haggling for a few minutes. I lay down my Visa card.
I will regret this. I already do. It is my hope that the recipients of these pieces treasure them as heirlooms, because if they don’t, I clearly shopped in the wrong part of the store, even for the least of the pieces, which I love.
To see the carving of jade live is quite interesting. The little blade rotates, bathed constantly in water to keep it cool. More surprising to me was the lack of safety equipment for the artisans. They had no gloves (understandable), no eye protection (again, understandable, though very risky), and lastly no masks (bwuh?). I understand the importance of personally handling the items, and that the masks could become clouded and difficult to work through, though I suspect that this concern is limited merely by our ability to peer through the glass to the workers as jade dust settled on the floor. But the masks really disturb me. Given the incredibly small cost of a mask and what I would think is the high cost of having a fairly skilled worker miss time due to pulmonary malfunction, I’d shell out for the masks. Perhaps the fact that the factory has not indicates that there is information I do not have.
[Learning how to tell fake jade from real jade: educational and practical! For starters, real hard jade, or jadite, makes a sound like cut crystal when struck. Furthermore, jade is a mineral, so when held up to light, it should be neither perfectly clear nor uniform, but rather translucent and exhibit crystalline patterns within the piece. Finally, jade is harder than glass. It can scratch glass without any damage to the item. Good to know, yes?]
The showroom is my downfall.
I begin by looking for tasteful pieces. Simple pieces. Inexpensive pieces. But I do not have inexpensive tastes. I find a traditional piece that I like, a “happiness ball”, which stands for the successive generations of a happy family. A “peaceful” wheel. A Guan Yin. I cannot stop myself.
All told, I find $6,300 of things I want to own.
In the end, I part with everything but three simple pieces. Two of them are fairly expensive. One of them is not so, though it is very intricate and very meaningful to me. The bill comes to $2,600 after haggling for a few minutes. I lay down my Visa card.
I will regret this. I already do. It is my hope that the recipients of these pieces treasure them as heirlooms, because if they don’t, I clearly shopped in the wrong part of the store, even for the least of the pieces, which I love.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Renewed shall be blade that was broken. The crownless again shall be king.
[These are collected funny moments that fit nowhere in the story today. I just want to share them out of context, or with as little context as possible.]
As Dave, Andrea, and I ascend the Circular Mound Altar, the spiritual center of the universe for Imperial China, Dave observes, “you know, we’re climbing the Stairway to Heaven!”
---
Victor wants to get a miniature set of Chinese Opera masks. He did not see them more than once today, and was quite disappointed. We did, however, encounter some very… enthusiastic sellers of what, frankly, was pure, unadulterated crap.
Victor: If they had masks, I would buy some.
Dave: If they had masks, it’d be a robbery!
---
An exchange between Victor and myself today:
Victor: Sometimes when you talk, you’re like a grown-up.
Me: Only sometimes?
Victor: Yep. But only sometimes.
Me: Is it good that I only sound like one sometimes?
Victor: Yep.
As Dave, Andrea, and I ascend the Circular Mound Altar, the spiritual center of the universe for Imperial China, Dave observes, “you know, we’re climbing the Stairway to Heaven!”
---
Victor wants to get a miniature set of Chinese Opera masks. He did not see them more than once today, and was quite disappointed. We did, however, encounter some very… enthusiastic sellers of what, frankly, was pure, unadulterated crap.
Victor: If they had masks, I would buy some.
Dave: If they had masks, it’d be a robbery!
---
An exchange between Victor and myself today:
Victor: Sometimes when you talk, you’re like a grown-up.
Me: Only sometimes?
Victor: Yep. But only sometimes.
Me: Is it good that I only sound like one sometimes?
Victor: Yep.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring.
I saw this on a sign on Legend Street between the Forbidden City and our restaurant for lunch:
Legend Street
Over 600 years of commerce.
Legend Street
Over 600 years of commerce.
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