Before you roll your eyes at my unbelievable narcissism, let me describe what exactly this 'attention' comprises. I'm not talking about modelling scouts coming up to me or starting wars that launch a thousand ships; I'm talking about people's reactions to seeing a circus freak or zoo animal walking the streets in broad daylight. Imagine if you saw, say, an ostrich strolling around your neighbourhood. More than likely you would think, 'Jesus Christ, an ostrich!' and take a picture with your mobile, maybe elbow your friend in the ribs to have a look as well and point. I get much the same treatment. Most of the time, people stare unabashedly, take surreptitious or not-so-surreptitious pictures with their phones, point and say (and I'm making a guess here), 'Look at that massive pink thing with the yellow hair'. Children alternatively grin with delight at seeing something so strange or look as though they're about to burst into tears. The elderly, often hunched with age, usually just fix their eyes on me and exhibit no discernible emotion, leaving me to wonder if they're cursing my laowai self. Laowai, by the way, is the...erm...old-fashioned term for foreigners and doesn't carry the best connotations (think 'foreign devil'). It's mostly old people that call me that, though there was one taxi driver who got fed up with us giving haphazard directions. And I think there was a bit of venom behind it.
That, of course, is cosmopolitan Shanghai. In Hangzhou, some less central Shanghai neighbourhoods, and in Beijing in 2007, it's been a bit different.
Beijing, April 2007: it's sometime before 6 am in Tiananmen Square, and the flag of the People's Republic of China has just been raised in time with the sun's first rays peeping over Chairman Mao's picture. My little Branson Mandarin class and I have been told that a 'small gathering' congregates to watch the ceremony, mostly provincial tourists. A 'small gathering' has turned out to mean several thousand people who are nonetheless easily accommodated by the looming vastness of the square. As we are taking it in, a man in a suit grabs my wrist and is excitedly asking for a picture. 'Why not', I venture, and before I know it he and four of his friends have their arms around my shoulders and waist and are all beaming enormous grins and flashing peace signs. A small crowd has gathered around us, most of them taking pictures of other people taking pictures of me. After they disperse, there are still several people trailing our class as we walk through the square and indeed until we climb into the car and shut the doors.
Walking home down Xinzha Lu from the gym, Thursday: gym bag slung across my shoulder, I'm on my mobile to my mother back in California, even though it's a bit early considering they're fifteen hours behind in the summer. 'People do tend to look at me like I'm a mutant here', I tell her, and glance to my left to see a man take a brief pause from chopping a plate of ginger to snap a picture of me on his phone's camera.
A cluster of shops in Putuo, Shanghai, the day before yesterday: my Shanghainese friend Rose, who works with Prudence and me at Riviera, has taken us shopping in a neighbourhood a few kilometres away from our flat in Jing'an. As Prudence sits down to wait while we try some things on, a little girl is peering at her with a combination of awe/abject horror on her face. When the girls mother tries to move between them in an effort to stop staring, the little girl leans around, mouth still agape.
Hangzhou, my first weekend here: read the earlier entry for a description of the mob that descended at Lingyin.
Some new friends in the train station at Hangzhou. It took them about half an hour to work up the courage to ask us for this, but they seemed happy as they ran off giggling wildly.
Richbaby, an all-Chinese nightclub, the wee hours of Saturday morning: this Swedish guy and I are dancing together when a smiling Shanghainese guy comes up to us and asks if we like free alcohol. We exchange glances and allow him to lead us to the VIP section, where he hands us champagne flutes of something much stronger and less pleasant than champagne, offers us all the cigarettes we want to smoke, and says that his girlfriend 'really wants to meet us'. His girlfriend is gaping wide-eyed as she shakes our hands, trembling with excitement.
I could go on, but you get the idea. A lot of Westerners get really annoyed at the stares and picture-taking and strangers 'accidentally' touching their skin or hair, but I personally find the whole thing hilarious. It's no skin off my teeth and it's a pretty effortless way to give someone their kicks. I also laugh when I think about what happens after they thank me and we part ways-what, for example, are all those people with pictures of a random white girl on their phones going to do with them? Show them to their friends and say, 'Look what I saw yesterday, it was f***ing weird'? Same with the people who ask to get a photo with me. Does this mean they'll have a photo of them and an odd-looking stranger in their 'Our Vacation to Hangzhou' family photo album? What on earth would they caption that? I will say that no one has handed me their baby yet like they did in India, which I found exceptionally strange...what if I had just run off with the baby, never to be seen again? Or what if I had dropped it? What on earth will those children's parents tell them in ten years' time when they're going through the family photos-'Here is a hilariously pale girl we found, so we had her hold you and we took a picture'?
The thing is, though, that I don't feel much like a freak here. I go about my daily business like everyone else in Shanghai-work, errands, shopping, nights out, breakfast, lunch and dinner-and don't really dwell on the fact that I look so obviously different. It's easy to forget, actually, which has made Shanghai not only way too much fun, but really and truly an agreeable place to live.
One quick thing: I have gotten the first proper manicure of my life. What took me so long? I've bitten my nails since I could chew and nothing, not even painting them with this unbelievably bitter glaze, could make me break the habit. But much to my surprise and delight, a few days ago I realised that they were longer and healthier than they've ever been. I don't know if this is from the heat and humidity (hair and nails do grow faster in the tropics) or if it's because I'm so happy and NOT anxious, but my fingers are now presentable. The manicurist had to work on them for a good long time, but I couldn't be more pleased with them and their pink polish. I hope it's the first of many manicures to come. Call me shallow, but it makes me happy.
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