Recently, I have been considering how my perspective is so fundamentally changed on certain things, just by virtue of a change in location. Now, the snarkist in me will of course pipe up with the observation that this is all a change in perspective is. But that is beside the point, and that part of me is an insufferable ass.

Take Starbucks, for example.

In the States, I always felt slightly oppressed by Starbucks. They were everywhere, they all charged money for wifi, their environments were uniformly bland and sterile, and their coffee was -- more often than not -- just plain bad. This isn't referring to their cream-sugar-ice-coffee concoctions, which are probably just as tasty as the combination might suggest, but their plain black iced coffee, which is what I always drank. It was consistently bitter, sour, and served with way too much ice along with a bad attitude, as if I was being marginalized for not purchasing a double-caramel-pumpkin-chocolate-macchiato with an extra shot of some hideous candy syrup.

So I tended to avoid Starbucks, heading for the usual hipster hangouts and smaller chains, where the coffee was cheaper and arguably higher quality, and the atmosphere was friendlier.

Here in China, though, the situation is reversed. Starbucks is the single store I know where I can consistently get fast free wifi and a good cheap cup of coffee.

Yes, the iced coffee is still bitter and sour, but it's actually iced coffee, rather than the normal hot coffee poured over a couple ice cubes, resulting in a cup of warm coffee-flavored water.

Yes, the environment is bland and sterile, but here I don't have intermittent high pressure fronts of cigarette smoke drifting into my airspace from nearby tables, or sweaty waitresses hovering over me while I consider which of their overpriced drinks to buy.

At one notable joint, I ranged through half of their coffee menu, being told with each order that that particular drink was not available. When I finally asked what they did have available, I was helpfully informed that their coffee machine was, in fact, broken.

In a fit of unbridled optimism, they suggested I order tea.

This is the suggestion of someone who has absolutely misunderstood the nature of caffeine addiction. I replied that, while I appreciated their enterprising nature, someone looking for a cheap cup of coffee would be hard pressed to order a 50RMB pot of tea. In despair, I finally ordered a Coke, which arrived in a warm can, and on leaving I was charged 15RMB… a fair price for a quick lunch (for example, a bbq pork set meal from the neighborhood Cantonese restaurant), but a far cry from the normal 4-5RMB price for a can of soda.

So. The only consistent factor in these shops is inconsistency. Thus, whereas the green medusa or mermaid or whatever it is of Starbucks in the States is a figure of cold, unbending corporate conformity, here it shines like a welcome beacon of reliability.

The fact that I can fill up my thermos with iced coffee for 13RMB (15, minus 2 for having my own cup -- something Chinese places aren't starting to do yet) doesn't hurt either. Normally a cup of coffee anywhere starts at 20, since they all tend to just make espresso even if you just want plain brew/drip.

And before I start sounding like an overly picky hobo with a slightly nicer version of a tin cup, let me just say it's not only about price.

This was confirmed a few days ago, when I discovered a Carl's Jr. in Shanghai by way of a giant ad placed on the elevators servicing my gym. I spent about 45 minutes on the elliptical with that goddamn Famous Star drifting in and out of my eyeline. Afterwards I showered, changed, and after a few minutes of internal debate, blew half a red bill (100/2 = 50RMB) on a Double-western Bacon Cheeseburger combo.

Oh... and go ahead and super size that, too.

The point, obviously, wasn't the price ( 50RMB is about how much I typically spend on food in 3 days ) or the food -- though the faint nausea I felt upon seeing the burger didn't stop me from eating it -- but the momentary sense of familiarity. In a surprising departure from the normal Chinese business model, Carl's Jr. even has the familiarly enormous paper buckets that masquerade as beverage cups, and a self-serve drinks fountain. They even have a little salsa bar with pickled banana peppers and salsa fresca.

In fact, it was almost like being at a Carl's Jr. in the U.S., except nobody there was openly weeping or picking at cold sores.

I think the fundamental reality is that I am, in fact… kinda homesick.

Not what I would normally call "homesick," really, but in a kind of low-level, almost unconscious sense of the word. I'm not depressed or forlorn, but put a little plastic tub of KFC mashed potatoes in front of me and there's a little rush of endorphins that might not have been triggered had I been offered a far superior Chinese meal.

And now, since my laptop battery's almost done and I may be off to some music pub in Xujiahui (徐家汇), it's random picture time.

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Friends Ellen and Roger; Ellen's been previously introduced, Roger is a fellow American here doing kind of similar work as I am, freelancing as a videographer. Also looking (or just got, I've forgotten which) teaching jobs. Also, how is it that my Nokia phone is better at exposing night pictures than my Casio digicam? Damn you, Hong Kong.

Jishnu, this one's for you… an entire store dedicated exclusively to selling frozen mochi. This is one of two display shelves with all kinds of flavors.

This sounds simultaneously like a delicious treat and an STD.

This is part of a series of posts that are going to detail my time as part of a week-long, five-star-studded, guided group tour my father arranged for us. Initially I thought it would be a short trip around Shanghai, and agreed to go in the hopes that maybe... just maybe... my dad and I could spend some quality time together.

...Yeah.

In any event, the posts are going to come in reverse order, since the trip is almost over and I'm writing what's most fresh in my mind at the moment. There's going to be more exposition in the posts to come, since explaining how these tours actually work at the business level is something I'm going to reserve for when my impressions get drier and I'm bored of writing about the whole thing anyway.

Pictures are also coming, when I get a chance.

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We were up at 6AM again in Suzhou, ready for another battle at the breakfast line with the five other tour groups staying at the same hotel. I have found that breakfasts tend to be the best meals, possibly because the hotel kitchen staff is accustomed to serving real customers in addition to the periodic herds of guided tourists. This is not to say that the meals are good ... merely the best in comparison to what we are fed in other establishments throughout the day.

As a result, despite the ungodly hour, the breakfast crowds are merciless. Omelet bars are overwhelmed, the young cooks sweating and dazed behind their portable gas stoves and french skillets. Busboys and waitresses skitter back and forth frantically, gathering used dishware and silverware, and responding meekly to impatient barks from patrons. Chafing dishes full of meat -- and some of the more competently executed vegetables -- are emptied faster than the kitchen can refill them, and fresh fruit is quietly smuggled away in purses and backpacks for later consumption.

Luckily for the staff, we are normally allowed only about an hour before being prodded onto our buses for the morning's featured event.

Suzhou's morning tour was the Lingering Garden (Liu Yuan / 留园), which was fairly interesting, in an "I've seen this in front of every P.F. Chang's" sort of way.

To be fair, the garden was actually gorgeous, and the steady rain only enhanced the drooping willows, the dark creaking wood of the buildings, and the twisting stone walkways. However, the place's serene beauty was utterly spoiled by the noise of workers busily restoring or replacing part of a wall, the legions of tour groups tramping about the place, and their tour guides' loudspeakers blaring in competition with one another as they expounded on the history of the place.

This is fairly typical of Chinese tourism, and I'm surprised I'm still upset by it after all this time.

Trying to escape the crowds, I decided to just wander off on my own into the maze of gardens, avoiding the main paths and tour groups, occasionally retracing my steps to check on the tour group and make sure they weren't piling back on the bus without me. This failed to put me in favor with the tour guide, who appeared to take offense that I wasn't cooing over his descriptions of the hardwood chairs in every room.

The garden was followed by a visit to a silk outlet, thinly disguised as a tour. I immediately left the group and located a cafe on the second floor where I spent a happy hour sipping a cup of terrible coffee and reading, with a brief but remarkable interlude... a "fashion show" put on by the factory.

The fashion show's grand finale.

The net impression was one of long-standing depression; unattractive models wearing cheaply made, unattractive clothes, slumping down a gaudy catwalk before wheeling robotically to retreat backstage. As a tribute to fading hope and listless cynicism, I could see no room for improvement. As a sales and marketing tool... I think they could do better.

We were then called to lunch, which turned out to be equally depressing. Out of seven or eight dishes (to serve a table of ten), one was boiled cabbage, and another was scrambled eggs, both with no seasoning whatsoever, unless you count despair. God help the chef in charge of the kitchens if he actually likes to cook; this was clearly the work of a broken man.

Once the shoppers -- and less discriminating eaters -- in the group had had their fill, we were herded back onto the buses for the drive to Hangzhou, which lasted for three hours and one pit stop.

Our arrival in Hangzhou was actually a pleasant surprise. Rather than viewing a pointless stretch of waterway or standing around in a field for fifteen minutes before being driven to dinner, we were driven directly to the restaurant near West Lake ( Xi Hu / 西湖) and cut loose for an hour. Despite the cold drizzle, the entire group naturally made a beeline for the lake itself, there to pose giddily for pictures of themselves in front of a featureless fog bank.

Despite having resolved to try to spend some quality time with my father this trip, I decided that this, among so many other activities, defied any possible interpretation of the phrase, and quit the field. I told him I'd meet him at the restaurant at the appointed time, and went wandering off by myself.

Incidentally, I now recognize this as my favorite mode of travel, which is something of a relief and a disappointment. I am relieved, since I can now stop wondering why I feel out of my element when traveling with others, but supremely disappointing in the realization that some of my happiest moments may simply be lost to time and strangers' memories, as I am unable to sufficiently share them even with the people closest to me. Words and pictures are a pale, clumsy substitute for a living memory, and that they may be all I have to offer when all's said and done is a disheartening thought.

Either they're the luckiest bastards ever to walk the earth, or about to die a bizarrely symmetrical death.

I immediately found one interesting attraction by the lake, at any rate; there is a peculiar monument, entitled "Monument to Martyrs of the 88th Division of Chinses[sic] Army in the Battle at Songhu[sic]."

The intent is clearly noble: on January 28th 1932, Japan initiated an invasion of Shanghai, in which 1,421 soldiers of the local 88th division died defending their country, and this monument was built (and subsequently dismantled for unknown reasons, then rebuilt years later at the current location) to commemorate them.

However, the two heroes that made it onto the monument are curiously immortalized at the instant in time immediately before being -- if the monument has any say in the matter -- violently martyred into a fountain of fine red mist by four simultaneously exploding bombs, which I found unsettlingly hilarious.

It wasn't long before I found a coffee shop hidden behind a narrow, neon-lit facade on a nearby street; all narrow stairways and wood paneling, the old building was dark and quiet inside, but for the creak of wooden floorboards and the occasional pool of light from a window or an overhead spot. The first floor was just a stairway; the second floor was a bar, where they were just starting a movie. I told the waitress I was interested in a quiet place to just have a cup of coffee, and the manager nearby told her to take me upstairs, to a floor that was simply marked "3/F Lovers" on the building's register.

"3/F Lovers," despite my various apprehensions, turned out to be a collection of small private sitting rooms. Mine was packed with a small table, two chairs, a tired-looking sofa, and an open window with a view of the street below. A single small sconce cast a dim honeyed glow over dark wood panels and dusty art, and a lake-fed breeze whispered in through the open window, somehow making the room simultaneously warm and cool.

The waitress took my espresso order and slipped out, leaving me alone with the quiet hiss of rain and wet tires outside, the lonely, ancient wail of a Chinese fiddle (an er hu / 二胡) floating up from the street, and the low murmuring click-click-clack of a game of mahjong (ma jiang / 麻将) from the room next door.

I had a pang of guilt when I remembered my dad out by the lake, but we are probably both happier this way; I have a moment of peace in this sublime little hideaway, and he is free to harangue his fellow travelers without me cramping his style.

Okay fine, I lied about the sconce; I just think it sounds better than "desk lamp."

I have half an hour until we are expected at what I fully expect to be an enormously boring and bland dinner, and I fully intend to make the most of it by sitting with my eyes closed, sipping my coffee, listening to the city around me, and otherwise doing... absolutely... nothing.

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Leisure 1930 Pub : Coffee House Restaurant
88 Scholar's Road ( xue shi lu 88 hao / 学士路88号 )
Hangzhou, China
T: +86 0571-87910561