Hangzhou Nights
I thought I'd have my own room last night, even though I booked a 4 bed dorm room. The three guys I had been sharing with had all gone, having spent their holiday time as well as they could.
We were all friendly with each other, except the unfriendly American, who assumed I was Chinese and adopted a condescending attitude towards the rest of us. I did not choose to enlighten him. Maybe I should be a little concerned about what could be a developing attitude shift towards my countrymen. Of course, maybe this guy was just a dick.
Anyway.
Marjolijn and I got back from dinner at Louwailou, a famous restaurant in Hangzhou -- poor Mike just missed us, being unable to get through to my cell phone -- at about 7:30pm. I dropped a few things off in my room, and noticed with pleasant surprise that the other three beds were empty. Thinking I'd have a nice night of rest on my own, I went on my merry way to the cafe to hang out with Marjo and Mike for a while before bed.
Ten thirty rolls around, so I say my goodnights and trundle upstairs, trailing yawns as I go.
Swipe my card -- beep -- open the door, and a petite Japanese girl with her pants half off gives me a surprised look. There's a moment's uncertain pause. She giggles hesitantly and hops, I assume to dislodge her skinny jeans.
"Uh..." I mumble, and shut the door, then lean against it laughing. After a while the door opens again, and the girl, along with her friend, also laughing, wave me into the room. The room has taken on a distinct atmosphere of shampoo and soap, a pleasant change from the formerly all-pervasive Eau de Dickish American.
I greet the two girls, whose mode of communication with the outside world seems to consist entirely of giggles and the occasional English or Chinese "hello," and I am wholly ignored by a third girl in the bunk above me.
Bemused, I collect my shorts and head off to change for bed. On my return, the third girl, who according to her card is Anna from Shanghai, formerly of Anhui, turns out to be very friendly and fluent in English, which is a nice change. She picks up immediately that I'm not Chinese, and laughs dutifully when I tell her my Chinese gets worse as I get tired.
After some small talk, we exchange cards and she invites me to hang out with her in Shanghai for a few days if I'm in the neighborhood, an offer which I will probably accept in July, long after she's forgotten it.
The girls all slip into their bunks, and I crawl gratefully under my covers too. It's been a long day.
As I'm just starting to drift off in a cloud of floral shampoo and soap scented dreams, the girls murmur wan an -- good night -- and I slip into a happily untroubled sleep, free of being woken by the thunderous farts, snores, belches, and random outbursts of my former male roommates.
I could get used to this.
Huang Shan, Day 1 detail
After dropping off our packs at the hostel, Mike and I made plans. We wanted to check out this town, and take a little walk to keep our legs warm for the climb up Huang Shan tomorrow.
So out we step into the morning sun, pick a random direction, and start walking. He's a fairly laid back exploratory traveler like me, so this mode of discovery generally suits us. After a fair bit of walking, we see a hill. Nothing really to make it stand out, except that it has a winding path that looks very Chinese and interesting. So, naturally, the only possible course of action is to climb it.
After twenty minutes of sweating up a winding, deserted road, we´re starting to doubt the wisdom of our choice. Pride being the petty creature it is, we press on nevertheless, and our perseverance is rewarded at the top by a deserted shack, next to which slump two dejected looking chicken coops. Peering in the door of the shack, we see a plastic table, a couple chairs, and a surprised looking man perched on a stool. There's a grimy piece of paper tacked to the wall with prices and lettering; apparently we've found the most depressing restaurant in China.
As we back out making apologetic hand gestures, he stops stirring the unidentifiable goop simmering on the stove and starts to stand up. As we walk away, I glance back to see him standing in the doorway, dripping spoon in hand, gawping at what must have been the only potential customers his establishment has witnessed in a generation.
We manage to get a good two hundred feet back down the hill before we encounter an ancient woman shuffling up the path toward us. We greet her politely in Chinese, and she replies with some advice.
"You cant get up that way, you have to head back that way," pointing down the hill.
"Thank you," I say, and we walk on.
A few paces later, we hear a hail. We turn to see the old lady beckoning, so we walk back to her, doubtless to hear some ancient parable of stunning significance. Eager to have my life altered in the most meaningful and profound of ways, I lean in closer so as not to miss a word.
The old woman smiles toothlessly, and points up the hill. My gaze follows her finger, then returns back to the unfathomable depths of her eyes. She gazes back steadily with all the force of the wisdom of the ages, opens her mouth, and speaks:
"You cant get up there. You have to head back that way."
This little gem is repeated a few more times with increasing vehemence before Mike and I can finally break away and flee back down the hill.
About halfway down, we spy a path winding up through lush greenery to a significant looking structure, possibly a temple or a historical monument. We divert up for five minutes of huffing and puffing, and finally step through the gate of the building. A man in uniform peers doubtfully at us from behind a desk, and the young Chinese couple seated before him turn to have a look as well.
I spy a poster affixed to a nearby wall, so I walk up inspect it. Most of it is in Chinese, but there are a few English words and acronyms that I recognize. CAD... Photoshop... SQL.
In our unerring quest for enlightenment, we've found the Chinese equivalent of ITT Tech, a technical vocational school in the middle of Tunxi. Red-faced, we turn and leave.
Nearing the bottom of the hill, we spot a commotion around a storefront. There are about twenty locals lined up outside this store, so naturally we have to get in line. After about five minutes, we see the people in front leave with a bulging bag of something. After another five minutes, another customer leaves with a sack of delicious goodies; the smell from up front is umistakably vanilla, eggs, sugar.. This must be the Tunxi equivalent of Krispy Kreme.
As we wait in line, sweltering under the glare of the afternoon sun, we plot our course of action. It would be pure folly, we decide, to waste this opportunity and leave with just one or two of these little cakes. Look at this line; nobody's pushing or shoving. This is by far the most peaceful, organized line either of us has ever seen in China. These things must be amazing, to evince this kind of meek, orderly behavior from the locals.
So we decide to each buy a giant bag of these little cakes. If we're able to control what will doubtlessly be our ungovernable lust for these magical treats, we'll have a few to distribute to some worthy locals and travelers. I had a vision of us holding court back at the hostel, surrounded by a collection of slinky female backpackers and Chinese supermodels on holiday from Shanghai, all fawning at our feet for just one more taste of those wondrous, unforgettable cupcakes.
While I'm otherwise lost in these delusions, I'm noticing that the line has grown substantially longer behind us. Significantly, most of them are peering at Mike, which is normal enough in China. They seem to have a real fetish for Caucasians here, regardless of the context.
Then I start examining the people getting in line, and a distinct pattern reveals itself.
A local will be walking past on the sidewalk on his business, then will slow as he approaches the line. His gaze will brush past the store sign with little interest, then slip along the line until it reaches Mike, where it freezes -- and so does he, often with one foot still airborne in mid-stride. After a moment, he will reanimate.
He looks back at the sign, then back at Mike. At this point, the odds are good that he will take the opportunity to snap a photo.
He'll then walk up to the front of the line and peer over the counter, just to confirm this is not some kind of elaborate hoax, and this is in fact a store that sells cupcakes.
He takes one last considering look at Mike; then, shrugging, he takes his place at the end of the line.
This little drama has repeated itself half a dozen times before we reach the front of the line and are rewarded with about a hundred of these little cupcakes in exchange for approximately $1.75.
Treasure in hand, I turn and raise my fists in victory. The crowd smiles, and I fancy I may have heard a few claps and cheers from near the back.
Striding away with heads held high, we reach into our respective bags and pull out a cupcake. After a pause for silent contemplation, we take a bite.
Ehhh...
They kind of taste like someone had crossbred a fortune cookie with an exceptionally stale angelfood cake.
Anyway, I figure, it's probably just some difference between American and Chinese palates. These things will probably still be like crack, opium, and Spanish fly all mixed together for the hotties back at the hostel.
So I drag them along as we trek about town, occasionally offering them to locals we pass. Nobody takes me up on the offer. Granted, I wouldn't accept a free cupcake out of a plastic bag from a sweaty guy on the street either, but my vision of myself as Cupcake King of Tunxi is starting to succumb to this brutal new reality.
The biggest blow to my delusion comes when, upon refusing a cupcake, a couple on a nearby hill asks us if we bought them to feed the animals at the nearby zoo.
Never mind, I think. The more discerning souls at the hostel will still be crawling all over us for these things.
So we finally wander back to the hostel, cupcakes in tow.
Nobody wants them.
Not even Xue Ping, who I have personally witnessed happily tuck into a dish of tofu that reeks of decomposing shit, wants more than a charitable nibble of these things. She says they're not really her thing.
Oh, really.
The only ones we manage to give away, in fact, are to a couple of Australian guys with sweating, florid faces and questionable dental hygiene.
Bow chika wow.