Wrapping
up a long day. Plenty more to do
all night long. But for now, I’m gonna
walk home through these Puxi side streets and most likely return to the all-night
Sichuan restaurant that is run by a Shanghainese lady. Small, little informal joint, the dishes
are supposed to Sichuanese I suppose, but they’re done like the old family
style Shanghainese food I remember with a bit more ma & la.
Walking over (power grinding just below a trot, really) this
morning I had a ton of new music to sort through that I’ve synced to my
phone. I can’t listen to music
with lyrics when I’m writing, working, but when I’m just short of sprinting,
aggressive music and commanding lyrics suit. I never, ever tire of hearing Elliot Smith sing. And I’ve long had just about every solo
thing he ever did. What is it
about his voice and delivery? Like
a parting of the clouds he always stands out to my ears among all his peers
with a voice that cuts straight in to my aorta, 深入人心[1]。
And I’ve long known he was in a grunge band called Heatmiser
before his remarkable solo career.
But I’d never paid them any mind.
“Oh yeah, that other band he was in.” Even when I discovered a tune or two that was gorgeous, I
never really dug in further. So
while I was broadly synching things the day before last, I added some Heatmiser
albums to the mix. Early days, but
upon first listening to their second album, the 1994, “Cop and Speeder” has a
host of remarkable songs; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cop_and_Speeder “Collect to NYC”, “Temper”, “Bastard
John.” I had “Busted Lip” on this
afternoon when I went out to get a sandwich. And . . . I believed him. I always believe him.
He’s never, almost never, trite, right up until his last moments when he
sticks a knife into his own aorta to wrap things up.
And the other gent on the album also sings. It would appear that his name is Neil
Gust. I’d never heard of him. He sings nicely. He also has pleasant turns of phrase and
seems sincerely bummed by it all.
But oddly I’m nowhere close to caring. Sorry Neil. I
hold out for the possibility that I will eventually become intrigued. But the moment Elliot Smith opens his
mouth I care about what it is he is going to say, as if it were issuing out
from the Ray Davies or John Lennon.
A talk with my daughters on the way over to my present
perch. My younger one will dance Bharatanatyam
at her school on Friday. I will
miss this. I can imagine her
stomping her feet and turning her little hands. The fascinating spectacle of thirty Chinese grade school kids
dancing earnestly to Karnatik majesty.
I’ve missed all her practices at home, these past few weeks, as well.
My older daughter is not happy. Her Chinese middle school calendar isn’t over till mid
July. Her new Western Middle
School program starts in early August.
“I don’t get a vacation!”
She’s right. I
understand. But there isn’t really
anything I can do. “No. You can’t just blow off your finals,
even though you won’t be there next year.” She’s close to tears.
Far away, you want more than usual to instantly make it all better.
The reception is terrible in our home. Unless you push your face up to the
screen of the rear window the connection deteriorates. I can tell their face isn’t up against
the screen. I can’t blame
them. It’s a drag. “I can’t hear you honey.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said . . . OK. OK? OK. Have a good
night dear.”
Sitting here by myself eating my dinner, I’ve reestablished
affinity with the older woman who works here. She used to work at the Jing An Hotel. She insists it was quite a place, back
in the day. I assume this is her joint but I can’t be sure. There are a number of other entitled
people running around with airs of ownership. And it hits me that an insight I had twenty years ago still
holds true: Shanghainese tend to
stare.
Back in the day, everyone in China tended to stare. When I was here the first time I
insisted my Chinese teacher teach me how to say: “Do you enjoy staring at
people?” She and many other proud
Shanghainese citizens counseled me that these people who gawked at me
incessantly were, certainly not Shanghainese. Shanghainese were most assuredly not interested. They were thoroughly, historically,
fundamentally, chromosomally familiar with foreigners. Staring fools, such as I describe, were
bumpkins.
Twenty years on, two or three million foreign visitors
later, the owner and the people sitting across from me, with whom I’ve chatted
in Shanghai dialect have all decided its high-tone to walk over behind my
shoulder and stare at me as I type.
I’ve long since established here tonight that I can converse and
understand what is said, but this needn’t inhibit the running commentary about
all of my behaviors. “He’s
chewing.” “Do you see what he’s
ordered?” “You see, foreigners
prefer beer cold. It’s bad for
their stomach.”
The folks at the table across from me were speaking
Mandarin. I assumed they were from
out of town. The proprietress
said, “You should get the snails.
See, the foreigner ordered them.” I asked them if they were from up north? The girl emphatically insisted she was
from Shanghai. I asked her in
local dialect why she wasn’t using local dialect. This was well received.
They decided to order the large snails. I had a ridiculously large pile of
small river snails on my table. (Another entitled, patron-like guy who would
have fit in as a Chinese extra in ‘Saturday Night Fever’ with a red shirt
unbuttoned down to a few centimeters above his belly button sporting a big
silver chain just darted over and considered what I was writing. “English. I can’t understand.”
Probably for the best.)
This table was very kind and not only looked my way but decided to offer
me a few of their big snails. I of
course insisted that they finish my plate of small snails that was large enough
for a small village of gastropod fans to sample liberally.
The young lady was, as suggested a local gal. The two gents with her were from Shanxi
and Shandong respectively.
“Shandong? Oh, where? My wife is from Shandong.” The young lady, as if on queue turned
and stared at me: “Why don’t you have a wife from Shanghai?!” There can only be one answer to this
line of inquiry: “Ahh, young lady,
as you well know, Shanghainese girls are very difficult to manage.” This too, was well received.
This girl has now asked to use the bathroom. She returned seconds later suggesting
it was “e lie” or “vile.” “Well, that’s all a small place can provide!”
suggested the patron, emphatically.
I could have told missy that would have been a pointless
expedition.
I’m full now. Fold
this up and head home.
[1] shēnrùrénxīn: to enter deeply into people's hearts /
to have a real impact on the people (idiom)
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