Confucius, he saaaaay..... "mei you Shanghai dao piao".
In Qufu, the trappings of tourism are all around you. World weary ponies haul gaudily decorated sightseeing carriages, vying for road space with the squadrons of orange and green pedicabs charging five kwai a ride. Like many another Chinese city, the sky is blackened around the edges by the stain of pollution. Yet here in modern-day Shandong province was born a man whose influence has lasted for millennia.
If only the great Confucius had applied his scholarly wisdom to the Chinese transport ticketing system. By this time, the money (and the magnetic strip on my bank card) was wearing thin and I needed to make my way back.
Of the town's three tourist offices, none were of any help. I jumped on a bus to Yanzhou, 14km down the road and queued at the station for an hour, only to be laughed at by the woman at the counter when I asked for a ticket.
It was not until the next day, in Jining, another 30km down the road, that I found a bus ticket back home. Home. Suppose I'm calling Shanghai that now.
Still, while not as laid back - backward - as Pingyao, Qufu retains an ancient charm. A friend said that to have a Confucian temple is a paradox; Confucianism is more a philosophy, a way of life, than a religion. Nevertheless, at the birthplace of the man himself you would expect to find the largest Confucian temple in the world, and Kong Miao is not a disappointment.
To get to Kong Miao, you must walk through the southernmost of the city's many gates, a double-walled structure insulating the compound from the great unwashed. Crossing little bridges over a series of dried-up moats, you are confronted by a spacious courtyard filled with trees.
The forestation within the temples seems to be a feature unique to Qufu, making them parks as much as places of thought, and giving them a sense of transcending the banality of urban life.
Passing beyond the trees, some twisted and splintered beyond recognition as trees, the third courtyard is home to gigantic turtles, or gixi bearing stone steles (stone tablets carved with Chinese characters) mottled with rusty lichen and tipped by ornate carvings of the double dragon.
The courtyard is dominated by the first of the main halls, the Kuiwen pavilion. Like many of China's purportedly ancient buildings, though first constructed a thousand years ago, it had a tendency to be repeatedly burnt down and rebuilt.
Then there is the Hall of Integration itself, introduced by the apricot altar from where Confucius is said to have delivered his lectures. Fronting the building are three incense burners and a series of decorated columns. Inside there he sits, the man himself, 3m tall with lips peeled back in a toothish smile, curtained off by a fading gold drape with a blue dragon motif.
On the other side of the temple walls a confusion of hawkers and street stand keepers flog a profusion of Confucian artefacts. It's all here, 'jade', 'bronze', paper cuttings, teatowels and the rest of it. Bearded and benevolent, the souvenirs belay Confucius' iconic status. Here he just seems like a latter-day Colonel Sanders.
'Job done in five minutes', proclaim the banners dangling from the chop-carvers' tables, and by golly, you too can have a mini Confucius with your name engraved on his base quicker than you can say... "rotten wood cannot be carved, nor are dung walls plastered". (Incredibly that was the first thing that came up after I Googled for "sayings of Confucius".)
After passing through yet more city gates and a praetorian guard of yet more hawkers lining the approach, you find yourself in Confucius' burial ground. More than this, the cemetary of all his decendents, or all who claim to be, which includes anyone with the surname Kong who has ever been near Qufu.
Again, the ambience is not of the sterility and sanctity one would expect of a working European graveyard but of a sprawling, unkempt and untended wood. Here and there rise altogether 100,000 barrows, the domes of earth under which the Kongs are buried, alongside numerous (4,000) steles and stone statues of horses, goats and grinning tigers. Wild and atmospheric, it reminds a Londoner of Highgate, where among others you can find Karl Marx.
Confucius himself lies in a pavilion watched over by two brooding granite sentinels. His mausoleum is an underwhelming mound of earth dressed in shaggy grass browned by the dry winter. Beside him is his son, Kong Li, and before him is his grandson, Kong Ji.
As I departed, a cavalcade of pickup trucks, a minibus and a tractor linked to a trailer full of earth squeezed through the second Saint's gate. Most of the people were wearing a white headdress of sorts, and in the back of one of the vehicles a band played on pipes and drums. It was only later that I realised that this was a funeral procession, Qufu style.
Returning to the city, next door to the temple is the Confucius mansion, the complex from where the Kong clan watched over the county. Wandering around the maze of courtyards and peering inside to view the museum displays, it wa easy to feel that the place had only recently been vacated. Oddments left lying around by the staff included a pair of gloves and a facecloth incongruously hanging in the centre of one of the quads.
Calligraphy wall hangings and old-style furniture sat confortably among more modern grandfather clocks. The Hall of loyalty and forbearance, named after Confucius' principle of loyalty and consideration, was notable for its ill-maintained look, the paint flaking away from the wood in ugly strips. Some symbolism here?
Elsewhere in the city are the Yan and Zhou temples, the former predating even Kong Miao. Grab a cab and you can find Shao Hao's Mausoleum. making your way past two enormous gixi with their stone tablets, you come to the tomb itself, a 10m high pyramid topped by a temple the size of a garden privy.
Finally, if it floats your boat you can visit the 'Ancient Lu State', in reality the ultimate tackfest. While there I was accosted by monks (or Butlins redcoats in disguise) and almost forced not only into taking part in an authentic Confucian ceremony but also into a kung-fu duel.
The theme park, for that it what it is, does have some educational value in illustrating how people used to live. The polystyrene pig. The jousting sheep. The broom room. And the final denoument of the practised art of Chinglish... "play dice, guess cock".
By heck, those ancient Chinese knew how to have fun.
Never visit a place you can't even pronounce.
The city itself wasn't too bad, but my run of bad luck continued. Making my way to the bus station, I found that no buses were going to Cangyan Shan, site of the hanging palace I wished to visit. Mei You. Wasted journey.
I was grossly overcharged on my way to CITS to pick up my train ticket, for which I had already been grossly overcharged. The chap was helpful, but there's little you can do if the buses are off for the hols.
Harangued by regiments of blackfaced beggar tots pulling at my coat, I had the worst lunch I remember in a long time and then dawdled out to get some more cash.
Mei You.
After visiting five ATMs I was beginning to panic. Surely not. Yep. My bank card had actually physically worn out and wasn't registering with the machines. Eventually, after a good deal of polishing the magnetic strip and swearing, I hit paydirt and grabbed a taxi to take me to the hotel. He refused to take me, wildly gesticulating. Same happened the next one.
After some analysis, I comprehended that the hotel was not far, but this is of no help if you have no idea where you are, have no map and can't read Chinese. Stumbling round for an hour, I finally found it; I had walked past no less than three times. Fearing the worst I locked myself in front of the telly for the rest of the day.
Despite it's provincial capital status, there's little to do in the city. I did take a walk to the martyrs' memorial park the next afternoon and was pleasantly surprised: small mausoleums and a museum commemorating the efforts of foreign (Indian and Canadian) doctors during the Japanese invasion and resistance campaign.
Statues of the most prominent, such as Norman Bethune, gazed out over the restful lawns and cemetary. His story was in fact quite inspirational. So I suppose that a foreigner can be accepted here, but Bethune's heroism is somewhat out of the reach of ordinary mortals. The man spent months operating on casualties, spending his spare time teaching doctors and even drafting field manuals and textbooks for them. Ironically he died of an infection after cutting his finger during surgery.
I travelled 200km to take out some of my own money.
Turning up in Pingyao, a smallish town in Shanxi province, on the morn of Chinese New Year was never going to be a clever idea. But, since the ancient city is known for being the birthplace of China's financial industry back in the middle of the Qing dynasty, I thought tracking down a bank wasn't going to be a problem.
Finding the site of Rishengchang, the 18th century proto Bank of China was simple enough. But a bank that would give me money? Mei You. What about Pingyao's biggest tourist hotel? Mei You. Aided by my tramplike guide, Mr Liu, I began to realise what a pickle I had got myself into in this preserved example of old China.
What about the nearest major town, Jiexiu, half an hour away by train? Mei You. The place had but one ATM and it didn't work. Mr. Liu tried a number of hotels and the main Bank of China, but Mei You, Mei You, Mei You. It wasn't even New Year's Day, but 24 hours afterwards. Nothing.
I bit the bullet and seeing off Mr Liu boarded a minibus to the provincial capital, Taiyuan. It'll go in 10 minutes, he said. It's nearly full. Best get on.
Over one and half hours later, the bus stirred into life and began creeping along at walking pace. Had it been five minutes later, I had determined to make my back to the hotel, since the last train back from Taiyuan was in just a couple of hours.
Accosted a taxi driver in the metropolis, which boasted a KFC so must have been fairly cosmopolitan. Demanding to be taken to an ATM and then the station, the driver regaled me loudly and I assume rudely for the entire ride.
First ATM. Mei You. My card didn't work. Second ATM broken. Third ATM... third time lucky. I had been down to my last 100 RMB with no other way of getting money. Two hours on the train back to Pingyao and collapsed in the hotel at about 9.30pm.
This notwithstanding, Pingyao is a delightful town. It's how China, picture-postcard, romanticised-historical China, should look. Narrow cobbled streets, few cars, vernacular courtyard architecture no building higher than 15m and that's the city tower. With Mr Liu, who proved a fair guide and didn't even try to cheat me, I self-consciously stepped into a few of these abodes and made stilted conversation with the residents.
Pingyao's lack of development makes it a refreshing change from the remainder of manically overdeveloping China. The lack of modernity means that life there is similar to that in the hutongs of Beijing. It may be nice to wander around as a tourist, but to the residents it's open outdoor communal toilets (3 jiao if you wish to piss in a hole in the ground I haven't cleaned for a month, dear. Thankyou). With no plumbing and temperatures well below zero, the effluence of hundreds of cooking pots was building up as volcanoes of brown ice around the street drains.
In other words, the place is a slum.
Still, it's a picturesque and photogenic slum. A jaunt around the 6km city wall was highly rewarding, as was my visit to the town's ancient ceremonial and civic buildings, Yaman, complete with prison and a display of torture instruments.
Inexplicably, the nearby city temple devoted a large section to models of various flourescent demons implementing these devices in unspeakable ways on naked papier mache people. Grisly.
Pingyao has to be the highlight of the tour so far, and despite inconveniences Spring Festival was a great time to be there. Everywhere old buildings were resplendent with red lanterns and small boys dashed around letting off big firecrackers. I wonder how many blow their hands off at this time of year.
The people were generally friendlier and less inclined to cheat than others I have encountered, and I'll even excuse the woman who stole an unlit cigarette from my mouth.
Next stop - Shijiazhuang.
The country is closing down. It may have been something of an... error... choosing to travel at this time. But here I am, so here I go.
Last couple of days, something of a waste. Military Museum - closed. National Museum - closed. But, as they say, 'bu dao chang cheng fei hao han'. You're not a good Chinese until you've been to the Great Wall. And so I did.
As luck would have it, a faint gauze of snow fell overnight, transforming the already splendid monument into something more. The Simitai section, some miles outside Beijing, was all but deserted but for a smattering of hawkers, who in their good grace even proved to be a useful addition to the party as we slipped and stumbled on the uneven and icy surface. The day was crisp and clear; the view was magnificent. Wait out for the pictures.
Unphased and not yet knackered, the next day saw me visit the Forbidden City, otherwise known as Gu Gong, the palace museum. Again, hold on for the pictures. Too much to describe here, but the Forbidden Starbucks and hall of intricate and elaborate clocks and watches worth a mention too.
Enough has been written on these for me to stop here. Don't want to bore you. Instead I might emphasise the friendships that I unexpectedly sealed on this extended sojourn in the capital.
These people will probably be reading, so I'll conceal their names to spare their embarrassment. But I felt it was a true privilege to meet and get to know 'B' and 'E'. They are people who can truly be said to have played their part in history.
I wonder if or when my own turn will come. Theirs was a time of revolution: the civil rights movement; Vietnam; the exploding 60's rock scene.
They have nothing but enthusiasm and kindness for China, and moreover the Living on the Planet project. While B is a born raconteur and can spice the air with his passionate views about past and present, E is seemingly more quiet and reserved but just as fascinating a person. They looked after me well.
The young woman who I shall call A is just as exciting to know, and looked after me just as well. Perhaps it was only last night that we 'clicked' together as friends, since I had been in a funny mood on our other meetings.
I kind of feel that A is someone who I can take under my wing, however soppy that may sound. She has a reserve of talent, writing in a language not her own, that needs food and encouragement. Hope I can offer it to her.
Otherwise, she's a sassy, sexy girl, full of energy and ambition. The kind of person who is only happy burning it up on an empty dancefloor, or poking around in someone's mind, pulling out the juiciest fruits she can find. I'm glad I'm her friend, not her mum.
So, thanks to Beijing, A, B and E for a good time. Here's to arriving at Pingyao at stupid o'clock tomorrow and finding a cheap hotel on the worst day in the year to fall out of a train...
Farewell goat, hello...
It was warm within the train, but when I stepped into the alcove between carriages for a smoke, the temperature palpably dropped.
More than just condensation was forming on the windows; the vapour from hundreds of people's respiration, combined with the steam from the hot water boiler that is the lynchpin of the Chinese transport system, was crystallising on the glass in an organic filigree of fern-like frost patterns.
The train pulled into Harbin, a few hundred miles west of Vladivostok and several hundred miles north of anywhere else at about 4.30am. Never a great time to arrive anywhere, perhaps here especially. But wrapped in my ski gear, mittens, hat scarf et al, all I could feel was a mild bite on my cheeks and nose.
Upon recommendation by a friend, I sought out the railway hostel, who kept me waiting until 5.30 am before they saw fit to install me in a room. After the mei you routine with the ticket officer, who finally sold me the ticket I actually wanted after I had mistakenly asked for and had been refused everything else, I settled in for a nap.
Other than its Russian style architecture, now swamped by the typically austere edifices of industrial growth, Harbin is famed for its annual ice festival. It was to this that I turned first. Just south of the river bank, itself lined with transparent, glistening penguins, dolphins and monkeys already melting in the January sun, a small public park is the scene of the main ice festival.
The first thing that strikes you is how much there is. No connoisseur of ice carving, it surprised me that there was so much. The sculptors themselves hailed not only from China, Russia, Canda as expected but also from some truly far flung places. Places which have never seen snow: Malaysia; Burundi; the Congo. ne wonders how they ended up here, and how ideed they coped with the -10 maximum temperatures.
Aside from the artistic, the symbolic, the trite, the erotic and the obscure, there are recreations of famed buildings; one I suspect was the Tiantan Temple in Beijing; I also witnessed the Acropolis and Coliseum. Another theme was SARS, with images of the mask and the defiant fist breaking through chains of fear and misunderstanding. Occasionally, the pale sun would stretch out a beam to illuminate the sculptures; at night neon bulbs effected the same.
On the other bank of the river, across which you can gingerly walk for a token fee, a larger park boasts the snow sculpture festival. Here again there are artworks in abundances. The largest of which, at about 20m long and 10m high, represented a chariot drawn by dragons and was yet to be completed. Next largest was a bucktoothed cartoon squirrel.
With all landmarks obscured by white - some of it darkened by pollution to black - finding your way around isn't easy. But there's enough in the festival to fill a few coldened days.
Also north of the river, if you can track down the 85 bus (which desn't necessarily stop at the 85 bus stop), there's another area dedicated to the spectacle of the frozen lands. At the bus terminal, for a price a small red tricycle car will pck you up and drive you to the largest Siberian tiger reserve in the world.
The park, seemingly built on an abandoned airfield, is home to nearly 100 of the world's largest land predators. Visitors, if they feel the need, can purchase an animal to feed to the the tigers: it's 600 RMB (US$80) for a sheep but a mere 10 kwai for a duck. Fortunately, no-one appeared to be choosing to indulge in this practice, which can only modify the tigers' behaviour to become too trusting of humans.
Instead, it's best to observe the beasts from the relative safety of a breakneck minibus ride. Don't expect any bars on the windows, though the door is prevented from swinging open by an iron wedge.
Though an individual tiger's range is many times the size of the park, thus rendering it a cramped environment for them, at least the tigers have some space within their fenced-off enclosures. It's the best Asian zoo I've ever seen, for that matter.
Leaving the railway hostel was a joy, however. Not only were conditions not quite ideal: no shower; and proof that even Chinese people can miss a squat toilet was left in evidence for an entire day.
My welcome came to end on my second and last night when the staff began to insist that I paid for a third. Feigining incomprehension and stupidity I did not get out my wallet, but revenge was taken the next morning when I was turfed out at 7.30am.
Yet on the train back to Beijing, I felt that I had achieved a personal goal. I had challenged myself to visit the ends of the earth and survived. A pity that I had not been able to track down the steam trains that I had been told about in a comfortable London suburb, but no matter.
I even survived falling off the ladder while climbing into the top bunk. So the journey continues.
Anyone else with the ineptitude and sheer bloody mindedness to choose to travel during the Spring Festival is going to get to know this phrase intimately.
Below you'll find the first installment of my travels around China this holiday. And forgive the typos and mistakes, this ain't my normal keyboard. In fact it's not a normal keyboard at all.
So where shall we start? Beijing. Might as well. Kept awake all night by a sleeptalker as disturbing as he was disturbed, it was with surprising energy that I took on the first sights of the day, the Bell Temple (Dazhong Si) and Beijing University with its pagoda and icy lake.
First encounter with rudeness outside a duck restaurant. A man appropriately dressed in a white coat leapt out and challenged us with "may I ask you a question?" Startled, my friend and I walked past, to be met with a hoarsely screamed "fuck youuuuuu!".
Had to be a scam - the guy hung around for hours waiting for us, or something, or someone else. Made a change from mei you, suppose.
Next day, Tiananmen Square. Needs no introduction from me. Had a squiz around Zhengyang, part of the south gate that used to be a courtyard until somone built a road through it. Upper floor of the ancient building notable for its playing card collection.
Disorientation next, in search of a subway station. Eventually realised I was on the wrong road altogether. Finaly met up with my coffee companion, about whom more later.
Beijing Natural History Museum a disappointment; Tiantan Park not a disappointment. Photos, well wait out. Might need about a month.
Accompanied friends Hannah and Jonna (pictured, click on thumbnail) to railway station in the guise of a lucky charm. Incredibly seemed to work, and after hours of shivering queuing and barging and blocking tickets materialised.
Regretted not buying my own ticket at this juncture, but a 100 RMB deposit was sitting comfortably in someone else's purse, with as it turned out, no intention of being spent on getting me a ticket at all. Mei you. Had to repeat the performance again the next day. Mei you. But here's one on a different day to the stop past where you want to go. Take it or leave it. Took it.
Summer Palace in the winter? Not as stupid as it sounds. A dusting of white transformed it into... something you can't describe without being cheesy, so I won't. I'l leave it for the photo processors.
And Lama Temple worth a look too, despite further disorientation for an hour, eventually discovering that it was indeed right behind the eponymous subway station. By some freak of nature, however, it appeared from the museum that the Dalai Lama is in fact a fat, smug and wholly unholy looking party official dressed in a yellow robe. Not the one we know and love.
Next stop - Harbin. I'm giving ip on this Internet cafe; it's too dark and the m and l hardly work. Next time.
You don't know what you've got until it's gone.
Whether or not there are avid readers of this weblog out there, this will be the last normal post for a while while I set off to travel around China. Plan is to start in Beijing. After that there is no plan. Keep it flexible.
Over the course of the last four months I've begun to realise how dependent I am on my elderly, knackered-out old laptop. It's my entertainment system, for playing CDs and DVDs. It's my primary mode of communication with friends and family back in the UK and beyond. It's my part-time job, editing Living in China. And it's the only tool I have for connecting with the reality outside the surreality I encounter here in the People's Republic of China.
Does this make me sad? A geek? A nerd? Perhaps it does. But one thing I realise every time I switch on the TV or read a Chinese newspaper - a rarity these days - is that the Internet is becoming a reality in its own right.
Yeah, most guys love The Matrix films. As was once pointed out to me, there's nothing wrong with a chick in black PVC kicking the XXXX out of people.
But to explore its deeper significance, it's worth living here for a while. I do often feel that in my normal life I'm isolated from the day-to-day reality I experienced in the 'outside world'. The only way to reconnect is through the keyboard. Down the rabbit hole.
So I will feel a bit naked on the road without it. But, let's face it, I might as well carry a brick around with me. It's better off at home. Anyway, in due course there'll be tons of misadventures and escapades to follow as I bimble around the Middle Kingdom.
Adieu till February...
I know, I know, I know. China has 5,000 years of tragic history. But sometimes I feel that Chinese cinema is almost a bit too introspective and disillusioned with fate, the universe and everything.
Having already tried to sink me into a morass of depression by donating a DVD of Farewell my Concubine, tonight Jenny attempted to further my decline with a trip to Jade Goddess of Mercy. (English fan site here).
Brief synopsis: Everyone dies. You get depressed.
Okay, I jest. It was a good film, and in many ways a welcome and refreshing antidote to the saccharine conventions of Hollywood, end even 'gritty' Britflicks. Because life's a bitch. Death wields his hand in the most random and unjust fashion.
It also acknowledges that China does have a problem with drug trafficking, though I doubt whether the LAPD-style full-auto shootouts happen here any more than they do in California.
Though the characters who deserve some kind of retribution ultimately get it, those around them also suffer. Even the noble (though slightly boring) journo and the three-year-old kid. No Hollywood film would ever kill off the child actor. No way.
However, the final word is that I would not recommend seeing this film if you are in a good mood because it will spoil your day.
Looks like it's fallen through completely now, so might as well explain.
One thing that people always say to qualify some bigoted remark is "I'm not prejudiced, but..." I won't say that, I'll leave you to make up your own mind. I certainly don't want to be labelled a bigot. But it does continually irritate me that in China, many things just don't seem to work without some kind of corruption or cheating behind them.
On Boxing Day, I received a text message (my secondary mode of communication after e-mail). Someone from the foreign department at my university was in contact with a professor at another institution who needed a native speaker to proofread an English textbook.
Would I be interested? For 2000 RMB (US$240) per chapter, damn right I would...
I spoke to the academic himself by telephone, who seemed like a nice enough man in himself. Before committing myself to proof all 10, I said that I would like to look at one chapter to estimate how long it would take. This was duly dispatched and I spent a few hours going through it before sending it back to them.
This may have been where things began to go wrong. The professor was working with another man, who it transpired would be in control of the thing. From the start, the tone of his e-mails was far from friendly. Before I had even agreed to do the work, he was telling me "this is what you will do".
But for a promised 20,000 RMB it was too good to let go. That much money would pay for my travelling and then some, so it was worth spending a few extra days in Shanghai for. Perhaps then it was my own avarice that got the better of me. But I delayed my travel plans by a week to get it done.
My initial suspicion, however, was "this is too good to be true". There was no written contract; how could I protect myself and ensure I was paid for the work? The best way, I felt, was a solution that would keep everyone happy. If they were to send me all the work they needed doing in one go, I could: a) double check it all against each other to ensure consistency; b) do the work quickly and efficiently in my own time without wasting a moment; c) ensure that I did not return the corrected proofs until I had a firm guarantee of being paid.
Having corrected the sample, the man got back to me and said "no, we didn't want you to do this one." So how was it going to get done then? I assumed they needed every chapter proofed. Another one was duly dispatched. I did the work on this one, all the time asking for the rest of the work so I could get on with it.
But every time there was an excuse. "It is important to ensure quality." "We won't send you the next chapter until we've checked your work on this one." How, may I ask, can you check my work when the whole reason I am doing it is because my English is better than yours?
The best was "this is the first time that I have been so hesitating in answering your questions though I have worked and have been working with a dozen of foreign teachers." Yet even four days after I sent them the second chapter to look through, no response whatsoever, not by e-mail, not by telephone, not by anything.
I am certain that I did a good job. The only reason that I can think of for this obtuse attitude is that they don't want to pay me. So the work won't get done and I won't get paid. Everyone loses out. Especially the students, who will receive yet another textbook riddled with errors.
The sad thing is that this seems to be the way with all kinds of business dealings here. Corruption and cheating, I am told by several different sources, is so endemic it is normal. It's actually considered a bit odd if you don't mess people around.
But why does it have to be this way? How can they build an 'economic miracle' if business dealings are based not on competitive trading but kickbacks? How can companies be managed effectively if the leaders have cheated in their exams and bribed their way in? What happens to the truly deserving and able people who don't have the money to work in this way?
'Capitalism with a Chinese face' is a continual disappointment to me. It's not just a flagrant abandonment of the socialist ethic, creating a new uber-priviliged bourgeosie and an exploited underclass, but it's not even a good way to do business. Perhaps I'm just frustrated that my little deal didn't come off, but I can't see how the nation can sustain itself operating as it does under ransom.
Today began with a bolt from the blue. Cocooned under my duvets, I heard my mobile bleep. It was a text message.
A text message from the most random person imaginable. A couple of weeks ago, I had met up with CIEE friend Hannah for lunch. She had been running late and on the way in borrowed a phone to inform me. The message was from the owner of the phone.
"Who are you," she asked at first. Then, "Are you a male..." Dingalingaling! Alarm Bells!
It transpired that this girl was one of Hannah's third year students out to improve her English. "You may call me Sunny," she texted. "Can I make friends with you if you don't care?"
While I am all for helping people with their English, this approach took me by surprise. Who in their right mind would call a complete stranger and ask this? How desperate is this kid? Can I really trust her?
Yet later in the day, a better experience in marked contrast to this one. The Living in China crew received a mail from a young woman in Beijing, Amanda Ma. Instantaneously, upon reading her website, I knew that we'd come across someone interesting.
Though there were some mistakes and misunderstandings, for a 25-year-old Chinese woman her writing is pretty useful. She already has a column in That's Beijing. Clearly she's on the way to becoming the next Muzimei... but with a rather more wholesome attitude.
This is exactly what the Living in China project needs - Chinese writers with talent and balls. One to nurture - I'll be blogrolling her too.
Finally, with many thanks to Michael for attempting to set this up not once but twice, my all-singing, all-dancing, new Movable Type system is up and running.
Please leave your comments below! I'd especially like to hear about how it looks on different browsers.
With little else to do but watch depressing DVDs such as Farewell my Concubine (see below) you're bound to have random ideas.
Today's random idea: a new word. Blogsheet.
I was once the editor, or e-dirt-er, of a scurrilous publication known as Bogsheet. Mainly concerning snogging, drunkenness or drunken snogging, it went up in the toilets of Pembroke College, Oxford every fortnight or so.
The first edition engendered threats of violence from three righteously indignant people, one of whom cycled several miles to personally complain. Everyone else thought it was wicked. Who among my contemporaries could forget the notorious McNamara incident? You can see the far inferior modern-day version here.
So, I coin the term, Blogsheet. Read into this what you will...
Having finally met Chairman Meow himself in Michael's plush apartment (and failed to get this blog converted to Movable Type), it was on to see the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra perform a selection of classic choons at the Grand Theatre. Highlights included the Blue Danube and a rousing Radsetsky March finale.
Plus gratis DVDs of A Touch of Zen and Farewell my Concubine to keep me occupied while I wait for more counterproductive messing about from Jiaotong. The first film stars and the second was produced by Kung Fu queen and Jenny's boss, Hsu Feng. (Alternative link here.)
Not a bad haul. Don't know what I'd do without Jenny now, but what do you give to the woman who has everything? All she got was one tangerine flavour Mento. Feel kind of guilty now.
Don't tell me that a dodgy chicken wing scoffed on the side of the road at two in the morning, plus a gobful of baiju shot down your mouth from a squeezy bottle, plus n quantity of beers will not make you hungover. Trust me on this.
After a morning of Saving Private Ryan and vomit, I at last felt well enough to take Jenny on a tour of the campus. And a terrific tour it was, with a potted history of the various Philip Sen buildings erected during my tenure and a visit to the basketball courts thrown in for free.
Jenny was slightly disappointed with the magnificent beauty of SHUFE, but she wanted to see it. (I still have no idea why the SHUFE website shows a rugby ball and an athletics track, but maybe I just haven't found them yet.)
Then on to Indian kitchen for poppadums, chicken tikka and more hastily made up explanations of things I know nothing about.