Surly and Distracted

T his year I’ve had a summer on the cool side.  I didn’t need to go to New Zealand or Tiera del Fuego, but I did head south for the summer.  Ethiopia, higher up than Denver, was very cold.  I was totally underdressed.  “Don’t worry kids”, I told them.  “Malawi will be down at sea level.”  Or closer to it anyway.  It will certainly be hot and humid ,mosquito country.  Wrong.  I wore a sweater every day in Malawi in June. We got back home to New York and it wasn’t cold, but rarely was it sweltering.  My backyard is always cool in the morning.  It was chilly in the evening. 

Shanghai is hot.  I had a sweater on when I landed.  Lose that real fast.  A talkative Shanghai cab driver:  “You’ve been here so long, what have you been doing all this time? Well.  Where to begin?  My phone’s bill hadn’t been paid in weeks I discovered later after I’d popped the SIM card in.  “Yes.  It’s been a long time I've spent in your country here.  Lots of change.”

Tomorrow I’ll be up in front of a class all day.  The whole flight across the Pacific, I was preparing lessons, reviewing materials.  I had a good book but I wasn’t yet entitled the downtime to read it.  After such a pleasant surprise on other airlines, I had it in my mind to try to play the United music stations.  The Ethiopian Air selection on the way out of Beijing meant dozens of titles to explore.  What a treat. Turkish Air on the way back to Europe had a “classic jazz” station that had some surprisingly unexpected gems.  United didn’t seem to have any music whatsoever.  The poor old planes were only fitted out with what seemed to be a video few channels to circle through. 

I haven’t had real Chinese food in over six weeks.  I go to my place here in my first Shanghai night, down the steps, beneath the road.  They make excellent family style Shanghainese food.  And they’re surly and distracted and not particularly friendly.  The lady from Jiangsu who doesn’t speak Shanghainese takes my order.  When she isn’t tired she might break a smile of recognition.  She’s tired.  It’s late.  She tells me to hurry up and order because they’re going to close the kitchen.  I get my dishes.  They start doing the dishes.  Sorting the silverware next to me, oblivious to the noise.  One of the ladies comments aloud that I’m “playing with my computer” and I’ll be here all night.  In the other baojian room, a number of men are getting increasingly drunk and belligerent.  The lady who owns the place is over where she always in, under the stairs, ordering people around in Shanghainese.  Good to be back.  My dysfunctional family style joint.

Thursday, 7/27/17