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.