I just returned to Baoding after a long weekend spent in Shanghai, China.

Remember when I tried to go last fall but couldn't because there were no tickets? That time, I wound up spending the Chinese independence day (otherwise known as National Day) in Beijing, which wasn't a shabby plan B since I had a lot of fun. This time, however, I made sure to purchase my Shanghai ticket well enough in advance so I wouldn't have a repeat performance.

I purchased a seat for the K-train, third class. This was not my intention. For a 12-hour ride, I wanted to be able to rest enough so I could enjoy a full day in Shanghai without having to crash. But a hard seat on the slow train was going to prove a daunting task if I wanted any rest. I also purchased a ticket to Beijing so I would be able to board my train to Shanghai later that evening after I arrived.

I arrived in Beijing around 5 pm. I looked at my ticket, did the math...if my train left at 11 pm, I had enough time to meet Slava for dinner at my favorite restaurant in Beijing--Matsuko Japanese. It was fantastic as always. We dined on fabulous sushi and sashimi, while swallowing hot sake and Kirin Ichiban, my favorite Japanese beer. My limbs felt like silk instead of the rusty wires they were before. As I parted with Slava, I hugged him and told him I wished he was coming to Shanghai, too.

I took the subway to Beijing West Railway Station, lugging a very heavy backpack filled to the brim with more than enough shit. I'm notorious for overpacking. The long walk from the subway stop to the railway station exuded any sake buzz I may have had, and the tension came back in my shoulders. I was tired and eager to get on the train, regardless if it was the shit train or not. I finally made it through the door and looked on the screen, clutching my ticket, wondering which gate it would be at. I couldn't find my train code anywhere. Then it dawned on me. I was at the wrong station. The train to Shanghai leaves from Beijing Railway, not Beijing West Railway. I had never been to Beijing Railway before, but fortunately there was still an hour and a half before my train. Or at least, I thought.

I took a taxi this time. We rode past Tian'men Square and I glanced at Mao's head, his relaxed eyes watching me back, silently berading me. "Shouldn't you know your way around by now, stupid weiguoren?" he snickered. "I DO know my way around, I'm just taking the scenic route," I mutter back, avoiding any more eye contact than I'd already given.

I arrived at Beijing Railway and wandered around, trying to find my gate. It said "2" on the main hallway screen but in terminal 2, my train code was nowhere to be seen. Now I was getting confused. So I went up to a man selling beverages and held my ticket. "Zai nar?" I asked. I apologized for no reason and waited for him to point in a direction. But he didn't. He waved his arms around a bit then pointed at the time, then waved them around some more. My eyebrows turned, pulling my forehead down. I had successfully managed to miss my train by misreading the time.

China (and the rest of the world) relies on Celsius, not Fahrenheit. China also uses kilometers instead of miles, kilograms instead of pounds, and, like the rest of the world, sets its watch by a 24-hour period, not 12 hours like America. Military time, if you will. I managed to look at 22:10 and think 23:10. I don't have a reasonable explanation. In fact, I'm ashamed to say this is the second time I've done this--mistakened 10 pm for 11 pm. I felt so stupid and ashamed at my mistake. I muttered, "Fuck." and walked away, holding my useless piao. Then I called Slava.

"Did you miss your train?" he asked jokingly, unprepared for the answer I had. I told him earlier if he heard from me it was because I missed my train. He didn't expect me to actually miss it, especially considering how much time we thought I had when I left the restaurant. He started cackling when I told him it was true. We agreed to meet at Dongsi Shitiao so I could crash at his apartment that night. I bought another train ticket for the next evening. The plus side to this was I got a Z train soft seat ticket. Z is the best train to Shanghai. And, I didn't have to pay full price for it. The price I paid for the shit train was deducted. So really, I couldn't complain. The only thing I was bummed about was missing a day in Shanghai.

In retrospect, I'm glad it went that way. My ride down there was so smooth. the guy next to me spoke English and was no fuss at all. Didn't talk my ear off, didn't snore, was pleasant the whole trip. I even slept a little, and I never sleep in seats! So all in all, I enjoyed the trip down. Made it halfway through River Town, pausing between pages to nibble on roasted watermelon seeds, a common Chinese snack. A very interesting read thus far, about an American man living in China, teaching English. It was funny to see how me and this complete stranger related with one another, especially in struggling to communicate with what often feels like an opposite world. I took a break and listened to my iPod, then drifted off and dreamt.

China is never what it your imagination may tell you, so it's best to just disregard any image you have in your mind before arriving somewhere you haven't been. I had this idea that Shanghai--the city with the modern infrastructures, the "Manhattan" of China, the Pearl of the Orient--would look like a white-gloved hand of some sort. Maybe I'd even forget I was actually in China for a couple of days and explore a new water town thoroughly infused with western culture. Sometimes it's good to get a fix. Maybe that's what I was after. I don't really know. I just wanted to get away for a few days, really, and relax myself. Baoding often feels like four walls, and when they start to cave, better start running or you'll get crushed.

The first things I saw while I was on the train... the buildings were stacked condos and apartments, dirty and beaten by typhoons and time. Rust was under the windows as though it was dark water still dripping. Alleyways looked like piles of rubble, nothing could be coherently recognized other than dust and debris. All this from my window. I lugged the heavy backpack over my shoulders, got off the train and made way to the subway.

I had been told by several that the Shanghai subway was easier to navigate but a lot more crowded than Beijing's. Actually, I thought the opposite. It seemed slightly more confusing (but manageable all the same), and far less crowded. In a Beijing subway, especially on Line 1, some days you get so damn close to the next person you can sniff and tell them what their blood type is. I had room to relax and play Othello on my iPhone, something a friend recently showed me is the best way to kill time on a subway (plus, I'm practicing so I'll get good and beat him!). When I arrived at Caoyang, I had to find my hostel.

I think subconsciously I enjoy making things more difficult for myself than what they should be. I could've just as easily asked someone as soon as I exited the station which direction I should go to find the hostel. I had a brochure. I knew enough Chinese to find out. But instead, I stepped out and took a deep breath, then followed the crowd of people, as though they were going there too. I was looking for Wuning lu, the street the hostel was on. I walked for an hour, making a large square, delirious and tired from carrying all my crap. Finally I asked a street patrolman which way, he pointed straight ahead. Walking further, my shoulders were aching and I was considering a taxi, even if it was just a short distance away. I called the hostel, telling them the hotel I was standing near, and just how far was this place? "10 more minutes, walk straight ahead," answered the receptionist, so I started counting steps to distract myself from the dents in my shoulders.

Had I taken the easy route, I would've just taken a right out of the subway instead of the left. But I crave difficulty, like I said. Either that or I'm just an airhead. Ok, yes. Sometimes. But, in my defense, I'm an airhead who frequently travels alone and is grounded enough not to completely lose it and start panicking when things don't seem right. My brain is wired in such a way that other possible answers and reasons appear first before the most obvious, rather than no answer or reason at all. So rather than having a head full of air, it's just a head full of other ideas.

The hostel felt like a hotel. Computers were everywhere. The lounge/bar area had a skylight. Free breakfast. Five floors of rooms. The beds were super comfortable. The bathrooms, not disgusting whatsoever. Strange for me to admit, I actually liked the smell of the water when I turned it on to shower. And oh, that shower felt good. Washing off the past two days was the first thing I did after checking in.

My first excursion was to visit the French Concession, located in the heart of busy Shanghai, but quiet enough to feel like you're strolling a neighborhood.

Weebly kind of sucks. I had several paragraphs typed then clicked on the scroll, then hit the delete button to erase a couple of words, then bam, I'm on the previous page and everything is erased. STUPID WEEBLY.

Let me try and regurgitate what I typed before.

Ni hao, I am in Beijing. Came here for a little escape from Baoding, for a quick city fix.

It's really easy to come here, just walk to the ticket office (smack dab next to campus) and buy a ticket for dirt cheap, and bam I'm in Beijing the next day. I love this city, flaws and all.

I would say the biggest flaw is the pollution, but that's no secret. I read a Beijing magazine awhile back that had interviews with local ex-pats. One was an artist who said he thought the pollution here was beautiful, that the milky skies added an air of mystique. Walking around today, I tried to reason with him and look at it the way he did. But I just couldn't. I'm normally a very positive person but I just couldn't help but look at it as another example of human mistake. But at least Beijing is more clean than Baoding.

I went to the Yashow Clothing Market today to buy some clothes. I had pretty decent luck. However, I had a bad experience with one of the sales clerks. Most clothing markets you can bargain at, and it's a bit of a game to test out your bargaining (and Chinese) skills with them. I was looking at belts, and wasn't sure if I wanted to purchase any. At first she seemed totally nice, in a not-so-fake way like most of the other salespeople. Plus she was a bit young and seemed relatively honest. I'll admit it's annoying getting hassled by everyone to buy shit when you're just looking around. So I took ease with her, she didn't seem so eager to sell but more to be friendly. Cool. So I was debating on a belt, then she told me her starting price: 250 kuai, only because I spoke Chinese (if I hadn't, the starting price would've been 400). 250 kuai for this huinushka? No way. The quality of the belt was shit. I wouldn't have been surprised if it fell apart in three months. I said in Chinese that the price was expensive so she asked me what my starting price was. "15 kuai," I told her, knowing perfectly well I was going to move up from that price, since that's part of the game. She instantly got pissed. "If I had known you were going to say that I would not have shown you any of the other belts! That is a joke!" Her demeanor totally changed. I could tell she was new at this, but still, it pissed me off. It made me not want to buy anything at all, so I said, "Ok cool, see ya later," then I heard her yell 70 kuai or something, but I just ignored her and left. Truth is I could really use a new belt but to have someone openly insult me like that left me with no desire to purchase one.

Tomorrow I plan to get work done. I want to come up with a skeleton of a syllabus for next semester and do some writing. I've been on a considerable hiatus from writing lately and it's time to come to a close. I have two prose ideas that have been floating in my mind so it's time to make them come to life. Other than that, greetings from Beijing!!!

xox
MISU

I love China but I hate the music around these parts. It's so. damn. happy. Fake sugar sweet, like aspartame. Nauseates me at times. I wonder how no one gets sick of it? Shops, taxis, the ring-back on phones, you name it and that sound is there, the sound of "We wish you happy every day."

That is the rule of thumb here, to be happy every day, even if you're not. I don't quite understand it. I think happiness can only be a genuine emotion, one that does not fake itself, one that cannot be forced. What if I don't want to have a happy every day? What if I want to feel like shit and curse everything in sight because, well, it makes me happy?

Other than feeling a cold coming on, I don't feel like that today. But sometimes I'll get waves of it, I'll clench my teeth and think not so happy thoughts. The folks who stare, the oh-so-slow people in my way (I call them Chinese turtles), the buses shitting exhaust in the air, the air itself. The happy music. Fortunately I don't act on these kinds of thoughts, I keep them inside except for an occasional mutter that no one around me understands. There is a comfortable privacy in speaking a foreign language. Sometimes I like to hide behind it.

I was riding home today from a task and a female announcer was on the radio. I think she was telling a story. Her voice was so grating I found myself imagining I could reach inside the speaker and grab her face, squeeze it shut. I tried not to let it bug me and instead concentrate on what she was saying. I could maybe pick up a word here and there but nothing substantial for me to understand. And she kept making the pre-cough noise, the throat drag. I found myself wondering, How is the Chinese language pleasing to the ear? Why can't it be like French or Italian? And why, WHY must it be so damn difficult to learn? Wai shen ma, wai shen ma?

There's another radio announcer here who's pretty popular, a man whose voice sounds like Satan if I knew what Satan sounded like. He's always growling and slurring, he sounds so angry. There's been a few early mornings here and there when I had to take a cab home, and the driver would have Satan blasting on the radio. If I didn't have my headphones I was in big trouble, because Satan and my hangovers would not get along. I found myself wondering, Why are you listening? What is he saying? And why doesn't his voice bother you? It doesn't sound happy any day...or night.

I find myself craving Beijing more frequently for the mixed culture. We're going tomorrow to see DJ Shadow. I don't really get much of my punk/indie fix here but that's fine. I like electronic as long as it's good. None of this Madonna remixy crap, or friggin' Avril Lavigne. Ohmylanta, they love her here, it's sickening and insane. I sat in on one of Kim's classes and a student asked me if I liked Avril. Rather than responding with a  "Hell no!" I gently suggested she check out some other artists. I wrote down Jeff Buckley and Bjork. Later I ran into her on the street, she ran up to me with an excited smile on her face. "I love Jeff Buckley!" she gushed. "He's so cute!" I wholeheartedly agreed, then broke the news that he was dead.

I started my sound project over the weekend when we went to the Great Wall. I won't disclose too much, other than I'm really happy with the quality. Thank you, Levus, for letting me borrow your microphone. It really picked up some good stuff. I will be posting my Great Wall pics shortly, once I have them all gathered and put together.

Thank you for reading. I wish you happy, every day.

xo
misu

p.s. Dear family and friends, I can't get a stable connection to call anyone at this point. Lamesauce. But hopefully that will change in the near future. P.S.S. My phone can send texts to the States, apparently.