A Life Less Ordinary

Note: This is a fairly long entry and only covers some of my time in Beijing. I am attempting to do what I promised on this blog, share both thoughts, but also experiences in a journal type setting. I’ve bolded important sites for those that simply want my opinions of major ones, but as a forewarning, China is not a place to be described in a few short paragraphs. With that, happy reading. Additionally, I’ve posted my China pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/evanjdoran.

Everyone has that annoying person who travels everywhere and tells unbearable stories of their travels and I’ve got more than a few who’ve told me about the smogginess and pollution of China. They weren’t kidding, and no, I didn’t overlook the irony of writing that first sentence on a blog dedicated to travel story-telling. I liked the circularity of being that annoying person though. Seriously, I sympathize with the Olympic sprinters who were complaining about air quality because while I didn’t immediately develop a harsh cough, I know people who are still coughing up black bits. Exaggeration? Maybe, but I can say it because I’m in Hong Kong, not the mainland. Akin to torture, our tour included in the same day an 8:00 AM flight and then a full afternoon tour through Tian An Men Square and the Forbidden City. Tian An Men Square is one of those places around the world where a greatly watched historical event occurred but because of CNN’s or NBC’s use of Chinese inspired montage shots as introductions into their “Terror at Tian An Men” stories, I’d developed an opinion that Tian An Men was a gorgeous cultural heart of Beijing.  In reality, the square is a gray behemoth, crowded with children grasping at parents fingers and tour guides touting flags and brightly colored umbrellas. It’s as if the US’s National Mall was covered in cement and thrown into the middle of Beijing. There was no anticipation of arriving upon the Forbidden City because one can see the entrance gate from a mile away. The recently repainted fire engine red gate beckons visitors to leave the limbo state created by Tian An Men, where grey is both under your feet and above your head.

The Forbidden City, being not very Forbidden anymore, hardly strikes up the imagery of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, much less Mulan. Eddy Murphy would have been a nice respite from the constant Chinglish being used by tour guides for American, British and even German groups. Feeling quite like cattle, 39 of us made our way through the giant Chinese style gates of the great city. Once through and quite confused, we collectively turned our heads back. “Didn’t we just pass through the gate?” someone asked. Apparently we had entered the city, but not yet experienced its vibrancy because we had yet another gate to travel through, this one called the Gate of Supreme Harmony. Kim, a hilariously opinionated Villanova Wildcat at once uttered, “What the fuck are you doing. I’m over it.” Having finally enunciated the exhaustion we were all feeling, we continued on towards hopeful Harmony. Once passing through, it became clear how Harmony could be momentarily attained by gazing at the sights ahead. Roof after roof of yellow glazed tile lied before us, culminating in the apex of the Hall of Supreme Harmony. Without being able to enter any of the buildings, it was hard to get a real sense of the life of a resident of the ancient Forbidden City, but I could at least imagine what a blue skied day might have been like before the advent of the modern factory. Nearing the exit, we all became aware that one of our classmates was missing. As the city was closing, two of our chaperones were sent to do the impossible: find Crissy in the mess of thousands of exiting Chinese. Luckily, Crissy had run into a helpful British fellow who helped her find our hotel in this still unfamiliar city; she boarded the bus just as we were leaving for another group dinner.

The next morning, continuing in shades of gray, we heading towards a traditional Chinese Hutong, which are old villages kept in a decent state of repair that offer insights into what old Beijing was like. Upon arriving, one could either conclude that the Hutong had seen some changes or that Beijing residents were hardcore alcoholics, given the number of watering holes that used old houses as residences. We had rickshaw’s escort us around and eventually made our way to lunch with a local Chinese family, who fed us a feast, with countless delicious dishes. After visiting a tea shop and the ancient bell and drum towers that signaled the beginning and end of days in the ancient capital, we headed back to our hotel. This was one of the first days that irritation was clearly visible, and not from constant touring. Personalities were starting to mesh and clash, as there was a clear delineation of peoples when we split up for family lunch.

The next day saw even great clarity among groups, as we arrive at the famed Bird’s Nest Stadium and the rest of the main Beijing Olympic grounds. The sound of the thousand drummers from the Opening Ceremonies long gone, the only sounds left in the vast paved grounds were the theme song piped from every metal orifice and sweaty vendors selling banana ice pops. Fittingly, that night many of our group ventured to a local hotspot called Coco Banana. Amid the pounding western beats we made quick work of clearing ourselves a spot on the dance floor. Glances and glares from our Asian hosts confirmed our success. The night ended on a high night for some, myself included, having watched with mixed dread and humor some of our Orange crew getting awfully close to one another. We knew drama was about to occur on a scale as yet unseen within our fluid forty-member team, especially as those less in control would have to deal with harsh hangovers during the full day of lectures slated for the next day.

The anticipated drama was short lived, to be replaced by drooping eyes and light snoozes during our unbearable day of lectures. The day turned out to be my worst in China, and not necessarily because of lectures. After learning about China’s ethnic headaches from the Beijing correspondent of Reuters we listened to a lecture on China-Africa relations by a South African native with a great accent. After a quick Sichuan lunch of spicy noodles and beef we returned for yet more lectures on China’s loss of urban heritage and ethnic struggles to the west. Once back at the hotel, Alice, Rachel and I decided to return to the Pearl Market to attempt to do the unthinkable: return a pearl necklace Rachel had come to regret. Chinese consumerism dictates that there is virtually no acceptance on returns, but for some miracle Rachel was able to convince the proprietor to accept the return under the guide of a badly chosen birthday present.

It was only when we returned; exhausted from the lectures, arm-grabbing t-shirt vendors, and unyielding pearl sellers that I realized I had lost my Kindle. I came near to having my “China moment,” that time we were warned we would all have when the cultural changes caused us to snap. Only mine would have been a stupid moment, with only myself to blame. I raced back to our classroom building, but with my nonexistent Chinese I was only able to reenter the classroom. No luck. Fortuna must have been smiling on me though, because my future roommate Mo was in the lobby when I returned, exasperated. I begged him to accompany me back to the building to use his native Mandarin. We went back and despite our best attempts, my Kindle was nowhere to be found; lost forever in the black markets of China. Could any Chinese really want English only Kindle with no charging ability and no way to put any more books on? I prayed not, but slept poorly that night nonetheless.

To be continued…