Zai jian, Shanghai

Crying in public is, in a word, humiliating. The eyes go all puffy, your mascara runs, you feel emotionally naked, everyone around you starts shifting awkwardly, and there’s no better way to make people stare at you. And here in the People’s Republic, people tend to stare at me anyway. My white skin and yellow hair and blue eyes immediately establish me as a freak; let’s chuck in a few tears, because clearly I’m not weird-looking enough.

And yet here I am at the Pudong airport, in the middle of the night, four blazers, a scarf and a sweater next to me (I’ll explain later) and tears dropping off my face. Unfortunately, the heart does not care about these things when it is breaking. The sadness I feel at leaving China behind is so intense that I can actually feel it in my chest and my throat, a deep, pulling ache that won’t go away. Bidding Shanghai farewell is made slightly easier only by the fact that I know I’ll come back, but the pain is still there.

As anyone who has ever dropped me off at an airport/train station/bus station/ferry terminal knows, I have a horrendous time with goodbyes. I’m just bad at it, full stop. One of two things will happen. Option A: I drag it out for days, work myself into a state of deep sorrow and wallowing, and burst into dramatic funeral-style sobs at the check-in desk. Option B: in the days leading up to my departure, I procrastinate to the point that all I have time for is a fleeting ‘haveagoodsummer’ as I run down the street with frantically and badly packed bags hanging off every body part. Option B, I believe, is my subconscious way of avoiding Option A. I’m not sure if there’s a pamphlet or something on how to be less shit at saying goodbye, but if there is, I would love a copy.

I shall return, said General Patton. And so I shall. But when your heart feels like it’s been bruised, this sentiment is of scarce comfort.

Fast forward about ten hours, and I am back in the Doha airport. It’s autumn in Qatar, too, which means that it’s 40 degrees during the day instead of 50. Shanghai already seems so far away (which it is, technically—about 4000 miles), which is good in that I’ve actually left, so I can stop dreading it. Besides, since I landed in Doha, I’ve been distracted by this drunk Russian biznizman called, and I kid you not, Vladimir. Vladimir has about six gold teeth and proudly told me that he is part of the mafia and a krav maga master—you know, the martial art they teach to the incredibly fierce Israeli army? For the past hour, Vladimir has been trying to make conversation in extremely broken English, hold my hand, get my phone number, and have me visit him in St Petersburg. Wow, that sounds like a GREAT idea! I would tell him just to piss off, but the mafia connections and krav maga make me a little bit nervous. Maybe I should have pretended to be mute.

Anyway, my last few days in Shanghai may have been tinged with sadness, but they were satisfying. Shanghai is a great city for walking—rather, aimless wandering or ambling, which translates to sanbu in Chinese. I think that I’ve covered most of the ground around our flat, so I figured that it was only proper I say goodbye to all of my usual streets. In the days before my departure, the weather in Shanghai was been idyllic as well—sunny and a bit dry, with a cool breeze, and generally just perfect for being outside. Not to sound like a scrooge, but in Scotland, for much of the year, I hate being outside. It’s so incredibly beautiful, but it’s just too cold. So for the past few days, I’ve tried to savour the warm air and sun on my skin and remember what it feels like. Hopefully I can recall when I get caught in the St Andrews sleet without an umbrella (I’ve lived in the UK for three years; you would think bringing the damn thing with me would be reflex by now).

Embarrassingly, up until yesterday I had never been to Yuyuan Bazaar, which apparently is where all the tourists head straight away (as I found out when I waded through the throngs of Chinese and laowai alike). So I hopped on the metro and admired the delicate structuring of the pagodas and lavish decorations in the temple, all of which bring to mind the old dynastic China. One of my favourite Chinese traditional architectural features is the lines of animals marching along the upturned curves of the pagoda roofs. The more animals on the roofline, the luckier, or so the thinking goes. It was explained to me when I first visited Beijing, though, so I could be completely wrong. Whatever. I like the animals. From Yuyuan I made one final stroll down the Bund and watched the Pudong skyline burst into colour and light as dusk fell. The scale of the buildings is unreal—you have to see it to believe it. I’m not a huge fan of modern architecture, but it really is stunning. I’ve been to the World Financial Centre in all its second-tallest building in the world glory a few times now, but it has never failed to take my breath away. What really struck me, though, as I leaned over the railing and watched a black cargo ship steam its way down the Huangpu River, was the enormous significance the skyline carries. The sense of history weighs so heavily on you. Forget a picture being worth a thousand words; the face of modern China has spawned entire libraries of words. Deng Xiaoping, were he alive to see it, would be proud. I think.

As I was bidding the Bund adieu, I stumbled across a large half circle of Chinese tourists all staring at something on the ground. Feeling curious, I went to join them and was greeted by the sight of two dirty white hippie-wannabes, complete with dreadlocks, guitars and sense of obnoxious self-righteousness. They were strumming away and singing something (off key, naturally) with an upside down hat in front of them, clearly thinking that all the Bund's foot traffic would make it an ideal place for busking. You have to be seriously dim to think that China is a good place to do that sort of thing, but there they were in all their Asian backpacking glory. Sure enough, two police offers marched up to them and told them to get out (even if you didn't understand Chinese, it was pretty clear). I know it makes me sound like a bad person, but I laughed. I hope that, after I left, the two policemen told them to take a shower as well.

After my twilight farewell to the Bund and Nanjing Xi Lu, I savoured one last meal of good genuine Shanghainese food, which was a particularly sad occasion. When I was waxing poetic over the phone to my dad about epicurean Shanghai, he commented, ‘I guess you’ll be really and truly spoiled with regards to real Chinese food now—nothing in the West will measure up.’ I readily admit that I was a Chinese food snob even before coming to Shanghai, for which I blame/accredit growing up in the Bay Area. Now, I imagine, I’ll be unbearable. My apologies in advance.

I’ll admit that my last forty-five minutes in the flat was spent frantically chucking odds and ends into my suitcases and praying that they wouldn’t weigh more than twenty kilos (checked bag) and seven kilos (carry-on). I’d brought the big one down to the post office a few days earlier to weigh it, thinking I had most of my stuff in there. After fighting through the crowds of people shipping mooncakes for the mid-autumn festival, I had been relieved to see that it weighed in at a mere 16.5. Unfortunately, the aforementioned odds and ends actually weigh a lot. I’m not very good at gauging weights, but when I picked up the suitcases, they seemed a lot heavier than what they were supposed to be. As I berated myself for not just shipping a box back to St Andrews, I frantically started rearranging. Shoes are heavy, I figured, so I stuffed a few pairs into my ‘personal item’—the one thing Qatar Airways doesn’t weigh. My books—which are easily three or four kilos alone, went into a plastic grocery bag in a bad attempt to make them look like snacks. I was still left with the problem of my four blazers and wool cardigan, though, which I knew would add a few kilos. With a sigh I squeezed on the sweater and two of the jackets and folded the other two over my arm along with the grocery bag of ‘snacks’. Needless to say, managing the blazers, ‘snacks’, massive ‘personal bag’, carry-on and big suitcase was actually impossible. By the time I got to the check-in desk I was roasting in my myriad layers, and my arms felt like they were about to fall off from trying to carry everything. Plus I looked like I had a disproportionately bulky torso and had a sort of wild look in my eyes, as the hour’s drive from Puxi had given me ample opportunity to work myself into a worried frenzy about what I would do if my stuff was still overweight. Crying? Pleading student status? Paying off the clerk? Faking a heart attack?

As it turned out the clerk didn’t say a word. My heart slowed down to its normal speed, though I’m still carrying around the four blazers and cardigan.

Next stop, Heathrow. Then Edinburgh, and finally, back to my seaside home in St Andrews, which, last time I checked, wasn’t so popular with the krav maga master mafia thugs.

Autumn wins you best by this, its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay

Well, as hard as I may try, I can't deny that autumn is upon us here in the northern hemisphere. And as depressing as this sounds, I've come to dread these funny few weeks of mid-September. St Andrews term starts late compared to a lot of places, so for the past three years it has felt like I'm trying in vain to cling on to that warm-sunny-holiday idea. Then, of course, I've started to associate this time of year with goodbyes (California, our summer flat last year, Shanghai). Add to that this imminent sense of dread at the approach of a Scottish winter, and, well, it makes you feel a bit...meh. Don't get me wrong, the weather is really lovely and all that, but I can't shake off that little something niggling at my heart. I have to say that I preferred this time of year when I was a kid, even if I had been in school for something ridiculous like three weeks already at this point. In California, Indian summer is simply gorgeous, and I had Hallowe'en, Thanksgiving, ski season, Christmas and a generally sunny, mild winter to look forward to.

This year, it's especially difficult because of two things, the first of which is the Shanghai goodbyes. Seeing people head back to Europe and the States has sucked. The second thing is that I'm heading into my last year at St Andrews, and no matter how much I slag off the winters there, I love my town and my friends and my St Andrean life more than I could ever say. I'm so excited to graduate, but the thought of leaving my adopted home is enough to leave me in tears. And it's still months away! Then again, I've never been good at...um...not crying. Considering that I always seem to be about 6000 miles away from at least someone that I really care about, you would think that I would have learned to cope better, but most every time I leave California or the UK I end up in tears. The kind of hug-my-knees-to-my-chest-and-sniffle tears that, when I'm sitting alone in a departure lounge, make people think that I'm being deported or something.

I'm afraid that there is a 99 per cent chance that I will be in a similar state in six days' time, but it will be even more depressing because it will be in the middle of the night (thanks a whole f***ing lot, Qatar Airways, for having your ONLY flight out of Shanghai leave at 1 am, that's so convenient).

You can feel that it's autumn here now. All summer long the temperature has been around 34, 35 degrees (high 90s for all Fahrenheit people out there) and pretty steamy, with lots of sun. I would hardly call it cold-29 degrees is still considered 'sweltering' by many of the Brits I know-but it doesn't sap your energy or make you feel like you're being cooked quite the same way it did earlier during the summer. The little blue fan I keep in my handbag has gotten much less use over the past few weeks. I won't lie, I'm worried. If I think that 29 degrees is counts as 'cool', then how am I going to survive landing in Edinburgh to a more-than-likely rainy 13 degrees? Will my fingers fall off? Will I die?? I remember landing at EDI in early February wearing flipflops and a sleeveless top after having been in Singapore and Thailand for two weeks. It was pitch-black and snowing. It took weeks to get over the trauma.

It's getting dark earlier as well. I left the office at about quarter past six the other day after fifteen minutes of heaving frustrated sighs at my computer (my laptop has this spectacular talent for uploading files very, very slowly, leaving me to wonder just how much of my life I've wasted attaching documents to emails) and to my surprise I stepped outside and it was NIGHTTIME. Gah! Doesn't that seem a bit early to you?! This is, of course, mere foreshadowing. I know how much worse it can get. For those of you that have never watched a sunset at 2.30 in the afternoon, I can't say that I would recommend it, but it's an experience. Ditto waking up in the dark for four months straight. Most of you know about my beloved sunlamp that resides on my desk back in St Andrews-the giant square lightbulb with two settings, 0 (off) and 1 (SUPERNATURALLY BRIGHT)-so that's my answer as to how I get through the winter. Unfortunately, even prostrating myself in front of the lamp for those minimum 90 minutes a day doesn't always work. As my aunt says, the best way to combat darkness like that is a boarding pass. After enjoying long evenings and dusky sunsets over the city's skyscrapers all summer, the early nightfall is quite sad.

Shanghai doesn't exactly have New England's reputation for leaf change (no leaf-peeping buses here). but if you look at the trees overhead you can definitely see autumn coming to them as well. This morning I went for one of my standard long ambles, and up on Yuyao Lu, suddenly found myself walking beneath a shower of slim golden leaves being shaken loose by a gust of wind. The street was silent and nearly empty, sort of like being in a surreal urban grove. The sky overhead was a thick blanket of gunmetal clouds, as there was a heavy storm brewing all morning, and you could fill that anticipatory click and whirr of brewing rain. Simply put, it just didn't feel like summer anymore.

You can tell, as well, by the hairy soft shell crabs that are suddenly popping up at all the fishmongers. All through July and August it was crawdads crawdads crawdads, all stacked immaculately in massive red piles, but now it's the crabs' turn. Ditto with persimmons, apples, pomegranates, and all the rest of the fall fruits. The other thing you see everywhere now is, of course, moon cakes! The mid-autumn moon festival is almost here, so they are EVERYWHERE in all their exquisitely crafted festive glory-from vendors in the street selling them off the top of a battered steel bicycle to the bakeries of luxury hotels. If only I were around for the actual holiday, which is the 22nd. To be entirely honest, I'll probably be bleary-eyed and wrapped in a cardigan and uggs in Starbucks with the girls rehashing whatever mayhem freshers week will bring. It doesn't really evoke that same romantic oriental image, does it?

Again, though, I know that there's no reason to get sad, as I'll be back after graduation. I really am just that bad at goodbyes. Oh, and cold weather. According to my weather widget, it's about 19 in St Andys right now (65F) and not pouring rain, which is not awful. I still see many scarves and ugly-but-warm hats in my future, though.

Small things:

-The other day, I walked into a shop and plucked a few dresses off the central rack. I pointed to the dressing room and asked if I could try them on, but the girl behind the counter gave a weary sigh and told me, very definitively, no. Why? I asked. The girl then told me that I couldn't try them on because I was too fat. We all appreciate it when people are straightforward, but what do you even say to that?!
-I promise (really, I do) that I will put my photos on shutterfly when I get back to the UK. It just takes forever with the VPN, and Mom and Dad, you've both made it clear that you don't want to go anywhere near my facebook. Good call.
-As Qatar Airways are so ridiculously anal about overweight luggage, I have decided to ship some clothes/stuff back to Scotland via the China Post slow boat. It's only 50rmb per kilo, which is a fraction of what QA would charge, and will get to the UK in a month. My goal is to have The Box (as I've taken to calling it) prepared and sent off in the next few days. Well, I guess it kind of has to be in the next few days, but sooner rather than later. If anyone wants anything sent to the UK in The Box, let me know asap and somehow get me the money for the extra kilos. For the record, I'm very curious to see whether or not The Box will actually get to me. Ever. If it does arrive within a month, I'll probably have a coronary out of pure shock. There's apparently an even slower option for 25rmb per kilo. A parcel is meant to take three months to arrive, meaning it probably reaches its destination within the next two years. It's 2010, why do these things still take so bloody long?! Ahem. Sorry.
-This afternoon I went up to Hongkou to get some clothes and jewellery at the Qipu Market, which is one of those multi-story labyrinthine behemoths packed full of stalls and pushy vendors. Amongst the things I bought was a necklace of a rhinestone panda playing an electric guitar. Pandas? Rock 'n roll? Totally logical combination. I also got myself a shirt that reads, 'THE FILTH AND THE FURY!' (yes, in all caps, with exclamation point). Behind the words is the outline of some very bizarre and perhaps Satanic-looking animal, like a cross between a rabid bunny and a goat. I really have no idea what the shirt means. At all. Finally, I figured I should buy some little souvenir touristy thing, so I got myself a shirt to sleep in. It appears to be a Texas extra large and has a picture of two pandas eating bamboo above the words 'Shanghai, China'. That may seem like a pointless disambiguation, but there are apparently Shanghais in North Korea and Puerto Rico as well. I would hate for people to be confused. We don't have pandas in Shanghai, though. That part is a lie.