My Favorite Day
Temperature hovering around zero Celcius all day, just enough on the plus side to ensure that the pelting rain never becomes anything more picturesque or less painful. Inside my temporary home, a borrowed one-room student apartment, the only major difference is dryness. Though not enough to allow 2 of my 3 pairs of travel underwear to dry 15 hours after washing them. Deprived of indoor heat, I'm sitting here at the computer in wool socks, long johns, heavy canvas pants, wool turtleneck, microfleece pullover, down jacket zipped into rain coat, and scarf. Yet my nose still runs, and my fingers are almost too cold to type. Welcome to Yangzhou!
Lest anyone should think from this description that I am not having a good time, and considering my last post, let me say in advance that the subject line of this message is not sarcastic. Today has been wonderful! In fact, the vast majority of this trip has been fantastic...just seems that the more traumatic experiences are the ones making it into print. No more!
It's hard to go wrong with a steaming bowl of wonton soup first thing in the day. Even if the wontons are considerably less delicious than the superb ones you've just had hand made from a respected grandmother's kitchen. Harder still to go wrong with a slender, deep-fried dough stick in your hand with which to sop up all the broth. Chinese breakfasts are invariably solid, meant to warm your bones after a cold night and fill your belly for the work ahead. Breakfasts that agree with me.
The restaurant, if a cement box with no door or windows just large enough for 4 card tables set nearly on top of each other can be called a restaurant, is mid-way through the tiny market area near my room. All of the cooking takes place outside, in a giant cast-iron wok inset into a rusty barrel with a big fire inside of it, alongside the various other giant woks inset into the various other rusty barrels with their own unique offerings up and down the dirt path. My presence still elicits quite a bit of staring, though most of it now bemused rather than stunned since I have been up and down the market quite a few times in the last 2 days.
After breakfast we are met by a small horde of college students, all friends of Chongchong's. 3 of her 5 roommates (for some perspective, their dorm room for 6 is no larger than college dorms I have seen in Canada that slept 2 and felt cramped - the bunk beds go nearly to the high ceiling) , plus 2 boyfriends, one Chongchong's who we've spent the last 4 days with. The other boyfriend is afraid to speak English and is a little miffed at being dragged along on this outing in the rain. The 7 of us pile aboard a city bus with half the population of their school and begin our expedition.
Crossing the street at the bus stop is a marvel. No lights. Traffic heading in 5 different directions inside the same convoluted intersection. Cars. Busses. Trucks. Taxis. Bicycle cabs. Motorcycles. Scooters. Bicycles (electric and old-school). Pull-carts. Pedestrians. All weaving seamlessly around each other on the rain-slick pavement like some kind of kamikaze ballet. I am in awe. No way would I try that in Korea. No WAY.
On our way to the park that is our (unbeknownst to me) destination, we walk through the campus of Yangzhou Normal University. The use of the word normal in the names of universities here has always entertained me, and here it seems particularly appropriate. Everywhere in the world universities have a very particular, very similar feel, this one no exception. I am struck by how like my university in Korea it is. How like the universities I attended in Canada.
By the time we reach the park we are already sopping wet. Though we all have umbrellas, the biting gusts of wind have already shredded a couple and rendered the rest just as useless in keeping out the stinging drops. In Chinese, the words for rain 'xiao yu' sound the same (to my untrained ears) as those for little fish. Everyone is joking that in America you are pelted by cute and cuddly creatures during a storm (cats and dogs) while here you are simply slapped about by wet scales. After coming all this way, I decide that the entrance fee (an equivalent in Korean won of about $20 US) is far too steep for a muddy wade along a nearly-invisible lake, especially considering I am apparently the only one scheduled to enter. The remainder of the party plans to sit at the gate and wait.
Foregoing the park, we walk around the neighbourhood instead. 2 of our number abandon the wandering for unspecified (hopefully drier) pursuits. The rest of us follow a rusty old sign on a whim that turns out to be the back entrance to the city's ancient 'bird and flower' market. All cities have them somewhere, often not well marked, and I am always delighted to find myself inside one. Often, thinking back, in the rain.
Very few things in the world interest me more than collections of flowers and animals. The first thing we see? A large glass case FULL of snowy white rabbits, still babies and yet big enough to be sold without eliciting one of my (infamous) soap-box rants. Better still, a whole family intent over the case, carefully picking out a bunny for each child, along with all of the necessary goods to accompany them. The old salesman handles the animals incredibly gently, and instructs each child how to do the same. He spends a long time explaining everything they need to know to take good care of their new pets, making my heart glow.
Beside the rabbits are mice. One tank of fawn coloured, another of grey. A surly cat. Puppies. And birds - so many varieties singing and squacking all at the same time it is easy to imagine the ruckus Noah must have put up with. Times a hundred, since here there are not only 1 pair of each bird but hundreds. Walking by the mynah birds we hear a chorus of 'Ni Hao, hello!'s. A big white cockatoo does a dance for us. A pale green parrot tells us we are beautiful. Canaries sing. Blackbirds whistle and trill. Fuzzy-headed chickens bob their disco-plumage up and down. And the big bird at the end whoops and calls fit for a 2 am strip club. Heaven.
Outside of the animal sanctuary, a veritable botanical garden of foliage stretches through the windy alleys all the way to the stonework canal. In addition to the plants, every kind of ceramic ware you could ever imagine needing is here, as well as decorative fish and turtles for the pretty pools your new gardens will certainly need. And everyone is so delighted that I am taking pictures of their things that they let me take pictures of them too, which is the real treat of the day. While photographing a display of the same giant bondaegi I ate in Qingdao (here to feed the birds), the ancient proprietor with the fish-bowl lenses obscuring his eyes whips out a tiny new samsung digital to showcase pictures of his grandson. When I leave the store, he is still there surrounded by a huge crowd of other market vendors all slapping him on the back and pouring him glasses of drink.
We eat in the market, in a stall that looks as if it should be illegal but which serves the most succulent dishes I have ever tasted. Then peruse the tables of antique books and gemstones that fill the courtyard a stone-staircase above the pets. My companions bargain on a petrified sand dollar that I want to take home as a gift for at least 15 minutes, frustrated by my refusal to pay the 15 quai the woman is offering. She explains to them in detail how precious it is, how rare, how trying it is for her to let it go for such a low price but how she is doing us all a favor since I am a foreigner. Sneaking back up the stairs to the table on my own, as everyone else heads for the main road, it takes me 30 seconds to get it for 10. Me to the man now at the table 'How much?' Him '20 quai.' Me '10 quai.' Him '20 quai.' Me, putting it down and walking away 'I don't want it.' Him 'Okay, 10 quai.' The young couple at the next table laugh and laugh and laugh. My companions don't try to bargain for me the whole rest of the day.
After the success of the bird and flower market, chasing a public toilet, we find ourselves inside a Museum of Buddhism that none of them knew existed. It is built inside the enormous temple complex of a Qing dynasty emperor, entirely new. Although the sign at the door says it is 40 quai to enter, the bored ticket woman lets us in for 10. We are the only visitors inside the entire grounds all afternoon.
The museum deserves an entire post all of its own, but since it's not likely to get one, here are the highlights:
-twin 250m long columed corridors running along each side of the spectacular series of ancient temples
-a 'Buddhist Life' exhibit that featured paving stones that bloomed lotuses when you stepped on them, an enormous sculptured buddha head on the wall that looked at you and talked, the first carving of Buddha that I've ever seen that actually looked like a man - incredibly moving, and a multi-media entrance in which buddhist deities fly around your head as if shooting stars while stories from the suttras are read
-sitting on floor cushions in the 'Buddhist Music' room, being serenaded from in front by the plasma screen recording of chanted sacred texts and simultaneously from behind by a uniformed policeman with a voice like an angel
-watching a video performance of the goddess of mercy, she of a thousand hands, accomplished by carefully synchronizing the movements of 21 people all in an invisible row
-examining the paper cut-out artwork in the long hall of the former monks quarters.
More walking the streets, more ancient pavilions and characterful alleyways, more market food (sweet potatoes, yum!), more rain. Then an overcrowded bathhouse (11 women, 7 nozzles...you do the math) with rough cement floors and water so hot it nearly peeled the skin right off us. And now, sitting at the computer in a quiet room, on my own, digesting it all. My favorite day.
Lest anyone should think from this description that I am not having a good time, and considering my last post, let me say in advance that the subject line of this message is not sarcastic. Today has been wonderful! In fact, the vast majority of this trip has been fantastic...just seems that the more traumatic experiences are the ones making it into print. No more!
It's hard to go wrong with a steaming bowl of wonton soup first thing in the day. Even if the wontons are considerably less delicious than the superb ones you've just had hand made from a respected grandmother's kitchen. Harder still to go wrong with a slender, deep-fried dough stick in your hand with which to sop up all the broth. Chinese breakfasts are invariably solid, meant to warm your bones after a cold night and fill your belly for the work ahead. Breakfasts that agree with me.
The restaurant, if a cement box with no door or windows just large enough for 4 card tables set nearly on top of each other can be called a restaurant, is mid-way through the tiny market area near my room. All of the cooking takes place outside, in a giant cast-iron wok inset into a rusty barrel with a big fire inside of it, alongside the various other giant woks inset into the various other rusty barrels with their own unique offerings up and down the dirt path. My presence still elicits quite a bit of staring, though most of it now bemused rather than stunned since I have been up and down the market quite a few times in the last 2 days.
After breakfast we are met by a small horde of college students, all friends of Chongchong's. 3 of her 5 roommates (for some perspective, their dorm room for 6 is no larger than college dorms I have seen in Canada that slept 2 and felt cramped - the bunk beds go nearly to the high ceiling) , plus 2 boyfriends, one Chongchong's who we've spent the last 4 days with. The other boyfriend is afraid to speak English and is a little miffed at being dragged along on this outing in the rain. The 7 of us pile aboard a city bus with half the population of their school and begin our expedition.
Crossing the street at the bus stop is a marvel. No lights. Traffic heading in 5 different directions inside the same convoluted intersection. Cars. Busses. Trucks. Taxis. Bicycle cabs. Motorcycles. Scooters. Bicycles (electric and old-school). Pull-carts. Pedestrians. All weaving seamlessly around each other on the rain-slick pavement like some kind of kamikaze ballet. I am in awe. No way would I try that in Korea. No WAY.
On our way to the park that is our (unbeknownst to me) destination, we walk through the campus of Yangzhou Normal University. The use of the word normal in the names of universities here has always entertained me, and here it seems particularly appropriate. Everywhere in the world universities have a very particular, very similar feel, this one no exception. I am struck by how like my university in Korea it is. How like the universities I attended in Canada.
By the time we reach the park we are already sopping wet. Though we all have umbrellas, the biting gusts of wind have already shredded a couple and rendered the rest just as useless in keeping out the stinging drops. In Chinese, the words for rain 'xiao yu' sound the same (to my untrained ears) as those for little fish. Everyone is joking that in America you are pelted by cute and cuddly creatures during a storm (cats and dogs) while here you are simply slapped about by wet scales. After coming all this way, I decide that the entrance fee (an equivalent in Korean won of about $20 US) is far too steep for a muddy wade along a nearly-invisible lake, especially considering I am apparently the only one scheduled to enter. The remainder of the party plans to sit at the gate and wait.
Foregoing the park, we walk around the neighbourhood instead. 2 of our number abandon the wandering for unspecified (hopefully drier) pursuits. The rest of us follow a rusty old sign on a whim that turns out to be the back entrance to the city's ancient 'bird and flower' market. All cities have them somewhere, often not well marked, and I am always delighted to find myself inside one. Often, thinking back, in the rain.
Very few things in the world interest me more than collections of flowers and animals. The first thing we see? A large glass case FULL of snowy white rabbits, still babies and yet big enough to be sold without eliciting one of my (infamous) soap-box rants. Better still, a whole family intent over the case, carefully picking out a bunny for each child, along with all of the necessary goods to accompany them. The old salesman handles the animals incredibly gently, and instructs each child how to do the same. He spends a long time explaining everything they need to know to take good care of their new pets, making my heart glow.
Beside the rabbits are mice. One tank of fawn coloured, another of grey. A surly cat. Puppies. And birds - so many varieties singing and squacking all at the same time it is easy to imagine the ruckus Noah must have put up with. Times a hundred, since here there are not only 1 pair of each bird but hundreds. Walking by the mynah birds we hear a chorus of 'Ni Hao, hello!'s. A big white cockatoo does a dance for us. A pale green parrot tells us we are beautiful. Canaries sing. Blackbirds whistle and trill. Fuzzy-headed chickens bob their disco-plumage up and down. And the big bird at the end whoops and calls fit for a 2 am strip club. Heaven.
Outside of the animal sanctuary, a veritable botanical garden of foliage stretches through the windy alleys all the way to the stonework canal. In addition to the plants, every kind of ceramic ware you could ever imagine needing is here, as well as decorative fish and turtles for the pretty pools your new gardens will certainly need. And everyone is so delighted that I am taking pictures of their things that they let me take pictures of them too, which is the real treat of the day. While photographing a display of the same giant bondaegi I ate in Qingdao (here to feed the birds), the ancient proprietor with the fish-bowl lenses obscuring his eyes whips out a tiny new samsung digital to showcase pictures of his grandson. When I leave the store, he is still there surrounded by a huge crowd of other market vendors all slapping him on the back and pouring him glasses of drink.
We eat in the market, in a stall that looks as if it should be illegal but which serves the most succulent dishes I have ever tasted. Then peruse the tables of antique books and gemstones that fill the courtyard a stone-staircase above the pets. My companions bargain on a petrified sand dollar that I want to take home as a gift for at least 15 minutes, frustrated by my refusal to pay the 15 quai the woman is offering. She explains to them in detail how precious it is, how rare, how trying it is for her to let it go for such a low price but how she is doing us all a favor since I am a foreigner. Sneaking back up the stairs to the table on my own, as everyone else heads for the main road, it takes me 30 seconds to get it for 10. Me to the man now at the table 'How much?' Him '20 quai.' Me '10 quai.' Him '20 quai.' Me, putting it down and walking away 'I don't want it.' Him 'Okay, 10 quai.' The young couple at the next table laugh and laugh and laugh. My companions don't try to bargain for me the whole rest of the day.
After the success of the bird and flower market, chasing a public toilet, we find ourselves inside a Museum of Buddhism that none of them knew existed. It is built inside the enormous temple complex of a Qing dynasty emperor, entirely new. Although the sign at the door says it is 40 quai to enter, the bored ticket woman lets us in for 10. We are the only visitors inside the entire grounds all afternoon.
The museum deserves an entire post all of its own, but since it's not likely to get one, here are the highlights:
-twin 250m long columed corridors running along each side of the spectacular series of ancient temples
-a 'Buddhist Life' exhibit that featured paving stones that bloomed lotuses when you stepped on them, an enormous sculptured buddha head on the wall that looked at you and talked, the first carving of Buddha that I've ever seen that actually looked like a man - incredibly moving, and a multi-media entrance in which buddhist deities fly around your head as if shooting stars while stories from the suttras are read
-sitting on floor cushions in the 'Buddhist Music' room, being serenaded from in front by the plasma screen recording of chanted sacred texts and simultaneously from behind by a uniformed policeman with a voice like an angel
-watching a video performance of the goddess of mercy, she of a thousand hands, accomplished by carefully synchronizing the movements of 21 people all in an invisible row
-examining the paper cut-out artwork in the long hall of the former monks quarters.
More walking the streets, more ancient pavilions and characterful alleyways, more market food (sweet potatoes, yum!), more rain. Then an overcrowded bathhouse (11 women, 7 nozzles...you do the math) with rough cement floors and water so hot it nearly peeled the skin right off us. And now, sitting at the computer in a quiet room, on my own, digesting it all. My favorite day.
posted by Roberta | 9:41 PM
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