Seven Days In Tibet

A view toward the Himalayas peeks through multitudes of prayer flags.

China was genuinely wonderful - I was smitten with all of it, even the moments that might seem unpleasant on the surface. But just a smidgen of a trip through Tibet complicated and soured my feelings about China. Let's start with Lhasa:

The old town of Lhasa where Tibetan culture thrives is deeply atmospheric: women wear traditional dresses, Buddhists in prayer seem to outnumber any other pedestrians or street vendors, narrow stone streets thread between centuries-old Tibetan style buildings, creating alleys and alcoves that you could explore for days. in the enter of old town, you see a steady flow of Buddhist "pilgrims" (our guide called them) practicing the kora: a meditative prayer that's done while walking in a large circle around sacred places.  The kora in Lhasa is a circular pedestrian street that passes several sacred monuments with the main temple at the center. As they walk the kora clockwise, people also chant and often holding small prayer wheels and spinning large fixed prayer wheels as they walk by rows of them. Some people prostrate themselves as they travel the kora - first kneeling, then laying flat in prayer and then rising and stepping forward to repeat the yoga-like flow of movements. A strong, noticeable tide of worshippers walks the kora at almost any time of day.

Evening: people walking the kora in Lhasa, including two monks and a man kneeling in prostration.

What does this have to do with China?

Marching in the opposite direction, counter-clockwise, on the kora circuit are Chinese police, SWAT teams and military personnel making their presence known. They are not a constant parade like the pilgrims are, but they are impossible to miss: they usually march in 10-man formations (at least, I never saw a woman among their ranks) and wear Kevlar vests, helmets - some with face masks - and carry semi-automatic rifles and riot shields. Some teams carry fire extinguishers, to prevent or end any protestor's attempt at self-immolation.

Just to enter this circular street through old Lhasa, everyone must pass through a police checkpoint; all bags are x-rayed, but white people were waved through without an ID check.

Worshippers throw incense into the stupa as they pass by on the kora in Lhasa.

Adjacent to this old neighborhood, a broad modern boulevard that leads to "Liberation Square" is decorated with Chinese flags. Three massive black police vehicles were parked here at the edge of old town -- one the size of a motorhome, another sort of resembling a tank, all three bristling with communications antennae and uniformed personnel with weapons. One officer carrying a powerful-looking rifle smiled at me and called, "Hello!" in English. Incongruous.

Liberation Square, Lhasa.

Attempt to photograph any police or military presence - or accidentally capture it in a photo - and you'll be pulled aside by a handful of officers and made to go through all your photos, presumably to delete the offending images.

Outside Lhasa, checkpoints were frequent. Our tour spent three long days driving across western Tibet from Lhasa to the Himalayas - nearly the border of Nepal. Along the way we became accustomed to our microbus stopping and our guide telling us to get out our passports.

About Liberation: this is the Chinese government's term of art for its annexation of Tibet in 1950, a situation that Tibet's exiled Dalai Lama described as cultural genocide.

I noticed portraits of Chinese leaders and Chinese flags prominently displayed everywhere I went in Tibet, including in restaurants and the one private home our tour group visited.

(Admittedly, all the areas we visited are frequented by tourists, whose admission to the region is tightly controlled by the Chinese government; we saw what they wanted us to see).

"Cultural relics protections, everyone's responsibility" reads an ironic sign at Tashi Luhnpo monastery in Shigatse, Tibet. #culturalrevolution

Chinese transportation projects and development projects in Tibet are double-edged sword. Arguably, they raise the standard of living but at the expense of traditional customs, culture and religion. Old-stye Tibetan homes are razed to make way for apartment buildings that elderly Tibetans don't want to live in, we were told. The same road and rail projects that might boost the Tibetan economy also speed the cultural disintegration that results from scores of Chinese and others easily moving in to confer and confirm their own cultural stamp on Tibet.

Living room of a traditional Tibetan family's home, complete with Chinese leaders' portraits.

"Ask my anything, but maybe don't lead with politics," our guide Tensing told us, smiling, early on our tour. Guided tours with registered agencies and credentialed guides are currently the only way to visit Tibet. Tensing was a font of information on Tibetan Buddhism and culture, but only on rare occasion referenced Liberation, the Cultural Revolution or the politics of Tibet's lack of sovereignty.

My visit to Tibet was brief and I saw an extremely narrow slice of life and geography, and it was through my Western perspective without benefit of deep knowledge. But I left feeling both concerned for the vitality of Tibetan culture, and also resigned that perhaps the tipping point of Chinese appropriation has already passed.

[Tibet tour: October 2-9, 2017]

When Geology Goes a Little Bonkers

Danxia geological park, an hour outside of Zhangye in the remote northern province of Gansu, became a destination on this trip because I liked the photos of it online. (A very reasonable Canadian couple I met a few weeks ago nodded in understanding, like this is the most practical motivation to go anywhere.)

The geopark is very proscribed in how you visit and what you can do there - namely, take a shuttles bus to a half-dozen stops and enjoy the scenery with hundreds of other people. The desire to melt away the crowds and walk in the mountains instead of look at them from the manicured fence railing was strong, but the seeing the place in the late afternoon and sunset light, and then again in the sunrise was a nice bit of wish-fulfillment.

[Click to scroll for photos.]

[Danxia geopark: Sptember 29, 2017]

Alternative Rating System For Hostels

The reviews on Hostelworld have been excellent guidance on the trip, steering us to incredible interesting, fun, helpful places at astonishingly low prices. Depending on the low, low price you're looking for, you will find a dramatic range of amenities or lack thereof.

Herewith, a rating system to supplement Hostelworld's, developed mostly by Andy and amended by me:

ONE-STAR: They provide you toilet paper, either in the bathroom or by handing you a roll when you check in.

TWO STARS: An en suite bathroom that has a shower curtain. The presence of shower curtains is elusive, which means the water from the shower from soaks the sink, toilet and everything else in the tiny room. This is an easy problem to solve, but apparently a problem that only annoys Americans?

THREE STARS: Reliable temperature control and reliable WiFi wth fast internet speeds.

FOUR STARS: A quality design aesthetic, comfortable places to hang out, and cats. Preferably sociable cats that let you pick them up and listen to stories of your own beloved cat who is back home in America, and who don't judge you or think this is weird.

FIVE STARS: Yurts. See above.

SIX STARS: A hostel manager who accompanies you in the back of a police car when you go to file a report when a pickpocket permanently separates you from your iPhone. (This service isn't necessarily advertised, but you'll be glad to discover it exists when you need it.) And then that same hostel manager comps you drinks from the bar and helps you throw a birthday celebration for your friend, whose still-present iPhone is now more interesting to you than ever.

Excellent hostel cat at Red Lantern House in Beijing.

Hua Shan: More Steep Hiking, Chinese Style

I wrote about hiking Huangshan earlier this month and Hua Shan, many hundreds of miles to the north of Huangshan and a short bullet train ride from Xi’an, is comparable in both challenge and terrain. Not an earthen hiking trail but stone stairs set into steep mountainsides. This time, we reversed our tram+hike strategy by hiking the 7 kilometers up, completing the mountaintop circuit of five peaks and taking the cable car down.

The massive West Peak, seen from North Peak.

Critical differences and benefits when comparing to Huangshan: Hua Shan is one of five sacred Taoist mountains, and there are temples dotting the trail and scattered across the cliffs. There were crowds here for sure, but nothing like Huangshan and zero loudspeakers on the hips of the few tour guides. The frequent ups and downs around the circuit still present a strong challenge, but it's easier to manage than the long continuous downhill and then uphill we chose at Huangshan.

Hua Shan’s five peaks are soaring cliffs of sandstone with stunning views of the valleys and mountains all around them. The rock is sandy colored and in some areas looks liquid, like it was poured from the heavens and took shape as these incredible exposed mountains. Of the five peaks, I like East and Central the best – the fewest people were there. Central Peak’s view wasn’t the most expansive but the temple there felt quiet and secluded. East Peak was one of the few areas on the mountain where we walked on the actual rocky mountain itself, instead specially installed stone steps, and as you stand looking out at the massive views you have low slung conifers at your back.

Temple on Central Peak.

A few bummers, intrinsic and extrinsic: I was still sick and hiking triggered a few violent coughing spasms – not pleasant for me or anyone around me, though Andy said it made me easy to find when we got separated. Also, there are few areas of Hua Shan that earn it the reputation as the “most dangerous hike in the world.” This includes a ‘plank walk’ of narrow wooden boards affixed to a sheer cliff, where walkers are given safety harnesses to dull the fear of nothing but air below you. Part of me is thrilled by this idea and part of me is repelled by the gimmick of it. That stretch of trail exists only to scare thrill-seekers – it serves no utility in getting you from one place to another. There can be moments in adventures that require a steel spine – crevasses must be spanned, the icy rivers must be fjorded. But this seemed like a carnival attraction to pay several yuan for a harness and meaningless bragging rights.

Chess Pavilion, seen from near East Peak.

On the trail, I met some Russians! They were assessing the start of the steep ladder climb through the 1,000 Foot Gorge - a set of nearly vertical stairs with chains on each for balance that sneaks up through a tight crevice in the rock. Frequently on this trip when people speak to me in Chinese, my impulse is to answer back in Russian. This time it was actually useful! Turns out they were from Belarus, a small group of older teenagers who were surprised but delighted I think to hear a familiar language from a stranger.

Vow belts and love locks frame the view from North Peak.

[Hua Shan: September 28, 2017]

Xi'an Should Have Been A Bust, But Wasn't

There are at least three reasons I could remember this metropolis in northern China with dim regret:

1. Rain. Constant, hard, torrential rain. For days.

2. A bad cold and deep cough persisted.

3. I lost my phone, probably to a pickpocket.

Despite these problems, I love Xi’an. When I travel I try to imagine, ‘Would I like living here?’ And Xi’an is a big yes.

The city is nine million people, but it feels so much smaller. Xi’an’s center (not its business district, though) is surrounded by a historic stone wall that’s withstood rival powers for centuries. At Xi’an’s geographic heart is a classic Chinese bell tower – just a few stories tall, a square, terraced building with a swooping slate-gray tiled roof. The galleries inside include a bell, obviously, but also fabulous murals depicting antique photos of the city, brightly colored scenes of people at work and play, and a massive drawing of runners taking off at the start of the 1/2 marathon that's run on the city wall itself. In the daytime, the balconies of the bell tower were a fun place to watch the traffic merge seamlessly on the rotary that encircles it: cars, bicycles, trucks and scooters all deftly merging and weaving across multiple lanes without incident. At night, the bell tower and nearby drum tower glowed with yellow lights that turned the red buildings a luminescent orange.

Sprawling northwest from the drum tower is the Muslim Quarter - part Middle Eastern souq, part midway at the county fair. Vendors hawk all manner of fried foods as people stroll, gawk and haggle. The carcasses of animals are butchered right alongside souvenir hawkers and women roasting walnuts. Several foot massage stalls had aquarium tanks on the floor in front of overstuffed recliners, where the patrons to soak their feet in while tiny fish nibble away the dead skin. Neon signs announce most of the stalls, but the bright lights are shrouded by leafy trees, creating a festive vibe. These are mostly pedestrian streets, but motorbikes and tiny trucks have no compunction about beeping their way through clogs of families and tourists. Tucked alongside this neighborhood is the Grand Mosque, careworn but still beautiful. Mosques can be incredibly peaceful and calming places to sit and rest and this one is no different. Just outside the old cement walls the city was full of noisy honking horns and yelling people, but inside the courtyard stood beautiful musty old buildings, damp with the day’s rain, trees, mossy gates and pavilions and few cats lounging around the fountains.

Xi’an is near the terracotta warriors, discovered in the 1970s and now world famous. I am still somewhat mystified that 2,200 years ago a paranoid/narcissistic emperor commissioned thousands of artistic clay sculptures and then intentionally buried them to protect his reign in the afterlife; and now we are digging them up and trying to put them back together.  (The army was buried facing east to survey the conquered land, and now in that general direction stands a McDonald’s.) The three excavation are active archaeology sites and seeing their work in progress was fantastic. Eavesdropping on a guide, I learned that maybe 30 percent of the site has been excavated, with decades more work to do.

The hostel we stayed at here played a huge role is my enjoyment of Xi’an. Staying put for several days in a cozy place was a treat. The morning our sleeper train pulled into Xi’an, we walked a half-hour through the rain to arrive at Han Tang Inn. We got our room immediately, and within an hour I’d had a hot shower was staring blissfully into a cup of coffee and eating a full breakfast in their comfortable lobby. Previous visitors had plastered the place with funny notes and drawings, and the blocky wood furniture gave it a rustic, solid feel.

One of the staff set out large sheets of rice paper, ink pots and brushes and taught several of us to write a few characters in Chinese calligraphy. While we learned to handle the brushes, the Canadians complained about their country’s politics, and the Britons complained about their country’s politics, and the Americans…. well, anyway.

My smartphone slipped from my raincoat pocket our first full day in Xi'an, either because I wasn't smart enough to keep track of it, or a pickpocket was smarter. The police and several sympathetic staff at the hostel told me the crush of extra travelers for the upcoming October 1 holiday make crimes of opportunity more likely. Emily, the manager of Han Tang Inn, came with me to the police station to file a police report, in the hopes that would ease the insurance reimbursement. It led to an interesting night that included a ride in the back of a police car, an hour surreptitiously observing the police in their offices, a good conversation afterward about how much Chinese people trust their police compared Americans trusting theirs. (She also comped us drinks back at the hostel bar to take the edge off the day and celebrate Andy's birthday.)

At one point, I was sitting in nondescript office while an officer examined my passport and visa (a scan of which popped up on the computer of the Federal Security Bureau office I had to visit the next day). Watching him, I felt the nervousness one feels in interacting with authority, even when you've done nothing wrong. My documents are in order, my visa is legitimate, there's nothing to be worried about. I remembered the debates about U.S. immigration and how when people are in the country illegally, they don't have the ability to report crimes against them. If anything was out of order with my visa, no waaay would I have tried to file a police report. But what if something more serious had happened?

The next day was a somewhat comical interaction with FSB bureaucracy trying to turn my official Chinese language police report into an English-language document. (At one point, a police bureaucrat had me sign a form stating that I lost my passport, and she seemed sheepish when Andy pointed out that's the wrong form.) I finally got the right documents from her, and she pointed to the bottom of the form where I should sign and date it: in English it read "Loser's signature." Indeed.

[Xi’an: September 25-28, 2017]

But Fun Things Happened In Beijing, Too!

The few days we allotted for Beijing were compressed even more by being sick, so my scant waking hours there read like a tourist's greatest hits:

Forbidden City: not so forbidden anymore, just pay this admission fee and join the masses who stroll the expansive grounds and gawk at the architectural remains of 500 years of Qing and Ming dynasties. The imperial palaces and outbuildings encircle wide plazas in the center, while the sides of the grounds are cloistered, narrow passageways.

[Click to scroll through pictures.]

Hutongs: In English, hutong is an alleys or side streets, and in Beijing there are neighborhoods of hutongs that take on personalities all their own. We spent a fun night strolling a hutong near Beihei Lake that had oddball shops, lots of cafes, and... lots of cats. A total win.

The Great Wall: and it is pretty great! It's not one contiguous wall, but many sections of wall that stretch across a wide expanse of northeast China. Some sections are precisely rebuilt and easy to access, others are untouched "wild wall" that intrepid hikers seek out. We hit up a section that is something in between - a huge tourist base draws multitudes there, but the wall itself was satisfyingly crumbly and deteriorating.

[Click to scroll through pictures.]

[Beijing: September 21-25, 2017]

That Time In Beijing When I Threw Up On The Street

There are unfortunate moments in any trip that can threaten the joy, and I've tried to cultivate an ability to look at un-fun situations as a neutral, future observer to make enduring them a little easier. And so on my first night in Beijing, when I found myself doubled over between a rickshaw and a Jetta on a crowded sheet and barfing up cucumber salad, I had three simultaneous thoughts:

1. They probably think the white girl is drunk.

2. Perhaps they think I'm just hocking up a massive loogie and spitting in the street, not uncommon here.

3. This will be very funny to me at some point, maybe as soon as tomorrow.

Allow me to back up, now: That morning I woke up in our sort-of dirty hostel in Tunxi and the sore throat that started the night before had blossomed into a head cold. By the time our bullet train arrived in Beijing that evening, my head was was full of snot and my eyes were tearing from the most painful sore throat I've ever had. A not-insignificant amount of space in my backpack is full of medicine that I lugged with me, so I wasn't too worried about being sick or getting treatment, I was mostly just feeling totally miserable and bummed.

We checked into a hostel, and I was deteriorating fast. Food, then sleep, then reassess. We walked through a pedestrian area that was crowded with sounds and people and smells - a sensory overload that made us understand why people say Shanghai may be the glossy future but Beijing is real China.

We choose a small, crowded noodle shop and wedged into wooden chairs at a wooden table, about 15 feet and several tables from the front door on the busy side street, not realizing yet that the distance and obstacles between me and the street would become important soon enough.

Have you ever had a sore throat that was so painful that it sent spasms of pain down your esophagus when you swallowed? The pain intensifies when you try to blow your nose, which you are now doing constantly, in a way that makes the productivity of your sinuses both impressive and horrifying. We ate a vinegary cucumber salad while waiting for noodles, and that triggered a cough/sneeze/esophogeal mutiny that turned my stomach over. I had just enough time to register, 'Oh shit, this is actually about to happen, isn't it?' I grabbed for the snot-soaked tissues in my pockets and tried to extricate myself from the blocky chairs and tables that penned me in, and rushed for the exit.

I paused momentarily, relieved I was at least outside now, but realized this street didn't offer a lot of options. I was trying to conceal myself anywhere as the salad came tumbling out in loud, heaving retches. I was loosely aware that an old man was watching from the next shop stoop, and that I needed to make sure I didn't get anything inside the rickshaw, and that the Jetta was really shiny and I should probably avoid splattering its fender, too.

I want to state clearly and proudly - this wasn't Delhi belly or Montezuma's revenge or the usual traveler's GI distress. I've eaten street food and fresh produce and brushed my teeth with tap water during this trip and have had zero issues. My head cold made me throw up. Ridiculous.

I got back to the table melted in misery. Andy looked at me with concern edged with interest. "Are you ok?"

"Um, I'm pretty sure, no."

I slept hard that night with the help of drugs, spent much time the next day deliberating if I should check myself into a nice hotel for three days of quarantined sleep and consider Beijing a lost cause. In the end, we switched hostels as planned, I slept for a day solid and put on my rally cap after that. It was definitely an uneven rally, punctuated with soggy Kleenex and growing a cough that wouldn't quit for the next week.

And you know what? None of this took the shine off of China for me. But Beijing will forever remind me of standing on a street with my hands on my knees and a puddle of cucumber on the cobblestones in front of me while thinking, "Huh, so this will be memorable."

Hiking On Huangshan, Yellow Mountains

"We're looking for the fairy bridge, you know it?" The four Czech hikers were the only other people on this steep section of trail deep in West Sea Canyon in Huangshan park. They were at least armed with a souvenir tourist map of the area (we didn't even have that going for us) but the artist's water color rendering wasn't super effective for navigating trails.

We weren't seeking specific landmarks like the Czech-mates were, but rather just trying to escape the intense cacophony of crowds on the other side of the park. Solitude, we found you here! But you also came with endless miles of stone stairs. Not a hiking trail so much as an infinity staircase set into the side of steep, sheer cliffs that plunged down into this gorge in the Yellow Mountains.

"This is... challenging..." one of the Czechs said to me sympathetically as I huffed up one last tall stone step to a resting platform.

Andy and I got on the first 6:30 a.m. shuttle to the park and one of the first cable cars up the mountain to get a jump on the crowds that were rumored to be bad. I mean, we were warned. But man! We hiked among the masses on the trails around the ragged top of the mountain, and then headed over to the West Sea where the crowds were promised to lessen.

And blessedly so. Even in the early morning, Huangshan was crawling with people - large tour groups, families, small gaggles of friends, everyone carrying walking sticks and selfie sticks and talking loudly, excitedly, constantly. The tour guides carried microphones with screeching loudspeakers on their hips. Everywhere you turned was the grating, distorted, amplified yelling of guides herding their patrons. We tried to outwalk them, skirt around them and dodge them but it was no use. Just plain claustrophobic.

But the views! There is good reason so many people come here. Towering rock faces, deep crevasses, cliffs that drop straight down forever, punctured by stubborn shaggy trees in cracks and crevices. The mist and rain that clung to the mountains in the morning burned off to reveal a sunny, hot afternoon.

Still among the hordes, we headed down down, down thousands of stone steps toward the heart of the gorge. Far down the descent, a cable car gobbled up tourists and winged them back up the top of the mountain. Below here, all the crowds disappeared, save the Czechs and a few others, and we kept descending down, down, down. A small stone bride cross a languid stream ("but this is not the fairy bridge, right?") and we found ourselves at the beginning of the long uphill climb. Essentially we had just walked miles straight down the side of cliff, and now our task was to walk miles straight up the other side. Sadistically, Andy suggests this would be an awesome ultramarathon course if they would just clear the park of everyone else for a day. Privately, I think, "There is no fucking way I'd do that race..."

Countless steps later, halfway up the mountain, we come to a small bridge. Now I'm also eager to find this fairy bridge that I'd never heard of till a few hours ago. Finally, I struggle up to a clearing where the Czechs and Andy have already found it: millenia ago, a towering mass of rock split ever so slightly down its vertical length leaving a narrow crevice that stretches hundreds of feet above our heads and way down into the valley below. And then some time more recently, a beautifully carved stone bridge was built to span this cleft, an adorned nugget that's plugged into the rock halfway up the crevice. Only fairies could pull this off.

We continued ascending, marking our progress against an equal mountaintop just across a small valley, rising higher and higher one stone stair at a time.

As we emerged at the crowded mountaintop, there was seemingly a curtain that separated this trail -- blissfully rugged and free of people -- from the loudspeakers and loud speakers that clogged the rest of the mountain.

Hard hike over and serenity bubble pierced, we headed to the other side of the mountaintop for the descent back to town. We had ridden the able car up in the early morning to make sure there was time for the hike, but we walked faster than the trail guidance predicted and had time to walk all the way down on foot instead of using the tramway again. I love downhill running, but this was seriously a test. The descent was endless, rendering my legs rubbery and more sore in the following days than I've been after some marathons!

[Huangshan, Tunxi: September 19-21, 2017]

Early Morning In Hangzhou

Awoke before dawn and stayed in bed until it was respectably early rather than stupidly early to get up. Around 5:30 a.m., I got dressed and crept downstairs to read before the hostel woke up and came to life. The sweet cafe off the lobby was dark and quiet but unlocked, so I scooped up the Siamese cat that lives here and we settled into the comfy couch next to the plate glass window that looks out on the side street the hostel occupies. The cat pooled on my lap and fell asleep while I read and watched the street slowly perk up. The occasional bike whispered by, and a few people walked past, perhaps on their way to work.

When the sky was sufficiently flushed with pink and orange, I gently shifted the cat to the sofa and went out for walk. The street cleaners were nearly my only company in the pedestrian area near the hostel. The night before, this area had been boisterous with food vendors and toy sellers and revelers, but now it's peaceful and the stone streets and buildings are glowing warmly.

Turning down another street, older men and women are standing unself-consciously on their doorsteps, performing their daily tai chi and calisthenics. In the small square next to the drum tower, two women practice a meditation around a tree, another is doing her own free-form jazzercise next to a small boombox, and two more sit on a nearby bench chatting and taking in the morning.

[Hangzhou: September 17-19, 2017.]

A Word About Transportation

And that word is, IMPRESSIVE. I mean, damn, China. You have really figured out trains.

The metros in Shanghai, Hangzhou and Beijing - all have signs with incredibly intuitive symbology, easy to navigate stations and maps, and bi-lingual in English. I think of signage in San Diego, and we don't even do this in Spanish. Shame on us, because it makes being a visitor so, so easy and enjoyable.

The high speed trains. I mean seriously, holy hell. Our train from Huangshan to Beijing tipped 300 km/hour (186 miles/hr) and in just about 5 hours it transported us the distance between Burlington, Vermont, and Chicago, Illinois. Plus, they are are so sleek and pristinely clean and pretty, just like the futuristic train stations.

Street Food

The narrow streets surrounding our hostel in Shanghai burst with fascinating and questionable eating opportunities.  Vats of live marine creatures, frogs, and trays of unidentifiable meats were on offer from dingy storefront stalls lining the streets. At night, the hot pot restaurants set all of their metal urns on the sidewalk and hosed down the hot charcoal cooking chambers. Dumplings are everywhere, neat white pockets of dough filled with delicious seasoned pork and running with hot juice.  

Highlights:

This is a hot pot. The urn holding fiery charcoal is affixed to the metal pot holding water, which is set into a well in the table. Add seasoning to the boiling water, then gradually add whatever ingredients you chose to order, and ladle out the soup. Ingenious.

This is my traveling partner in crime Andy, celebrating the low-rent version of hot pot -- a make-your-own-ramen setup in somewhat suspect, tiny restaurant. (The large health inspection poster on the wall showed a yellow emoji face with a straight line for a mouth, instead of a smile.) After some pantomiming, we understood that we should each take a metal colander, choose a block of dried noodles, then add the raw ingredients we want from the bins on the vaguely refrigerated shelves, then they boil it up for us in the back. My bowl has vermicelli, spinach, mushrooms and something purple.

A mere 5 yuan (76 cents) gets you this eggy crepe filled with fresh greens, plum sauce, some kind of crunchy something and possibly some couscous (?). The woman pictured here spread the thin batter on the hot round stone and folded up the whole burrito on the same surface. Whatever those ingredients were, this Chinese breakfast burrito was fantastic.

A Search For Meaning (Or Not) At A Buddhist Temple

Wandering the courtyards amidst the five buildings of the historic Longhua Buddhist temple in Shanghai, I noticed a family gathering inside one hall for a funeral, or more likely a memorial anniversary. Perhaps a dozen people, not seeming to be freshly in grief, were eating lunch at tables inside the temple, alongside three towering gold Buddhas. In front of one statue was a large antique portrait of a woman who looked to be 40 years old, taken decades ago, decorated with fresh flowers. Several monks in saffron robes entered and sat at their own table, near the other two Buddhas, and began to recite prayers. I watched this from the far corner of the temple, standing next to a Chinese man who suddenly and cheerfully asked me in a slightly-too-loud-for-moment voice, “Where are you from? How long in Shanghai?”

I regret not getting his name or photo, but I did get a nice conversation. He explained the three Buddhas are the pathway to eternal happiness, and their prayers are meant to usher her soul there. His English was halting, he looked to be 30, wearing black track pants and a t-shirt.  He himself is from Shanghai, but has been in Melbourne where his wife is finishing her degree. They go back and forth about where they should live, but he thinks that if they have children, it would be better to raise them in Melbourne.

“The Chinese education system, it’s really difficult for children. It’s too much. It’s pressure,” he says, gesturing with tensed hands.

My acquaintance and I both wander to the side of the three Buddhas temple but the walkway is closed off to visitors. Then two black SUVs pull in, and their smartly dressed passengers are escorted through the bamboo gate that marks off an area restricted to monks.

“They are probably VIPs,” explains my impromptu guide. “Probably they give money to the temple. The family with the funeral, they probably give money, too.”  He gestures around the grounds and shrugs, “I think giving money to such a big temple is….” He’s either searching for the English word, or else he's uncertain how his opinion will land.

“Meaningless. I think it’s meaningless.”