Shanghai Flug

Jan Golden — Sun, 03 May 2009 15:39:38 +0000

Sunday, or, Xingqi ri in Chinese,which means the same thing. I am locked into my beloved Astor Hotel by the Pu River. Our enormous jumbo drifted down this morning, where we were subjected to rigourous Schwein Flug precautions. A lady came over the intercom and spoke like a news bulletin, repeating phrases repeatedly, like ” please write honestly, please write honestly, all passengers who do not write honestly will receive bad welcome”, which is shorthand for quarantine and deportation. The hysterical world reaction to a local problem is instructive. Thousands die every day from water borne illnesses and malnutrition. But this is an affluenza. Only the loaded may get it. An extra from 28 Days Later pointed a temperature gun to my head, and read me my last rites. The gaggle of English teenagers ahead of me, for whom a trip to China was as passé as a trip to Scarborough, were not as cocky and garrulous as they had been throughout the uneventful flight (which I passed by watching a succession of mindless violent films that I rarely get a chance to see). After long, tense, sweaty minutes ( the local temp much hotter than our foreheads), we were allowed off, passing hundreds of silent, still, masked terracotta employees who stared at us like we were condemned to a gas chamber. They actually did spray us with some gas from the vents while we were waiting. I feel more loyalty to the Party now, and a strange desire to cook sticky rice. My bag survived the arctic chill, and it was ready and waiting. Shanghai airport is simply Gargantuan. Already made to feel like an insect in a land of a billion, the colossus you enter on arrival-clean, empty, austere- made me remember descriptions of Hitler’s offices, where you had to walk across acres of marble, through doors flanked by 8 foot SS Guards. Only strong men like Guderian, Rommel or Beck could feel confident as they traversed such cool vastness. I felt my age, and smelled like an unshaven otter. I couldn’t find the taxi rank, and ended up walking another 49 miles to Terminal One, a wonderful name for any death camp, I thought, and finally caught the hawk eye of a cab driver, who took me on the long road to the city. Pudong airport is built on a reclaimed swamp. Any rise in sea level over the next century will see it slowly lapped by the Pacific.

The Chinese are planting more trees than anyone else in the world, and the trip to the city made me see that more clearly. I am a big fan of trees, especially conifers at the moment, and I noticed the beautiful weeping spruces more than ever. The problem with the vast planting progamme is that they tend to be monocultures, or exotic species. No birds will live in them. Our own Devonian hills, lonely and bitter, are similarly

ruffed with sad carpets of Sitka spruce, destined for a one-day winter festival, draped with tinsel boas and plastic gew gaws, ignored and then dumped. In the Canadian temperate forests of British Columbia, Oregon and Washington, the Sitka Spruce can attain heights of 300 feet.

Arrival at the Astor Hotel, the oldest hotel in China, and once called Herbert’s Hotel. I am greeted by two boys in kilts, naturally, and treated to the first attempt to rip me off. The driver only has a fify yuan note, and wants me to tip him 40 yuan. I refuse, and the Highlanders are set off to get change. I tip the driver appropriately. If you overtip, they get the impression that you are a zillionaire. That reminds me of a Bush joke- President Bush is in the Oval Office. His Chief of Staff comes in. “Mr. President, a plane has crashed in Texas. Three Brazilians have died’. Bush slumps in his chair, his head in his hand, groaning in disbelief. After a minute, he looks up and says, ” How many is a Brazilian?”

After check-in, I close the curtains in my room, and dive onto the bed- in pain, as I forget how hard Chinese beds are.

I rouse at 7, go to a local restaurant, where I am the only customer. The waitress understands me! I ask for qiezi, mogu and wan fan- aubergine, mushrooms and a bowl of lovely sticky rice, which I can’t get in Dublin. The staff mill around, smoking, answering phones with a loud “Wei?”, and talking at school yard level, but I don’t mind. I like Chinese restaurants, their chaos ( the electricity failed for 5 minutes), the curiosity of the staff, and the general lack of snootiness or pretentiousness. The food is robust and generally delicious, although the qiezi was a smidgin hot and gloopy.

Late now, but I have contacted Master Ma and Yuan Yongrong, Master Tian’s top student. I am eating with both masters tomorrow, so I have to tart up my Chinese eating expressions.

I read Alain de Botton’s Art of Travel on the plane (in between the violent films, of which Max Payne was truly shite) and I recommend it very much.

Huijian

Welcome to Tai Chi Ireland News

Jan Golden — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 14:07:52 +0000

Welcome to the brand new News-Blog of Taichi Ireland - Professional Old Yang Style & Wu Style Tai Chi classes and workshops in Dublin.

Visit the newly designed website (www.taichi-ireland.com) to learn how to improve your fitness, posture, balance, energy level, blood circultaion, digestion and immune system, and lead a healthier life.