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A Walk Through Shanghai
It's shortly after nine in the morning, but it's humid and hot and
there's a really bad stink coming up from the Wusong River, the canal
whose murky, black water is bubbling into the Huang Pu just next to
the Pujiang Hotel where I stay now for the third time in the last
three years.
The hotel is one of the grand old buildings whose prime was in the
late twenties and thirties when it was still called the 'Astor House'
- one of the most expensive places here in Shanghai. Now it's filled
with backpackers like myself who sleep in spacious 12-bed dormitories
which were once single rooms.
Last year they converted one of the dining halls - the last one with
the old interiours - into a stock exchange. I can see the flashing
red and green lights announcing new rates as I walk past the
entrance.
I cross the Waibaidu Bridge, an old-fashioned steel construction. In
1989 I witnessed one of the largest demonstrations crossing this
bridge on the day the government announced martial law in Beijing.
Since then every time I cross the bridge, I fall into a strange
marching rythm - on that day the row of protesters was endless, I
stood on the bridge for hours, stuck in the middle of a cheering
crowd.
I'm now on the Bund, or Zhongshan Dong Lu as it is called today. The
waterfront is still untouched. There is still this unique classic
view of 'modern' 1930-style buildings, stretching up to at-that-time
daring 12, 15 or even 20 floors.
At the moment there's construction work going on and the street
looks like a battle field. I carefully avoid the open shafts, 6 feet
deep, and stomp directly into a puddle of mud - yuk! But when you're
travelling in China you're used to construction work going on -
sometimes you get the feeling you're travelling through a gigantic
construction site with some hotels spread in hundred-mile intervals.
The rate of high-risers mushrooming in the big cities every year is
incredible.
I'm now turning into Nanjing Lu, the main shopping street not only of
Shanghai, but of the whole of PR China. It's sidewalks are usually
crowded with a good part of Shanghai's 15 million people plus all the
chinese who can afford to come to Shanghai for a shopping spree.
I'm thinking about going into the Peace Hotel to buy some postcards
for my folks back home but vote against it. Instead I'm heading for
one of the cafes further down the street. Their interiour extends
from classical colonial to hyper-modern steel-and-glass and the
guests vary about the same - you never know who'll sit next to you.
This time it's a young couple with their child. They smile one of
those smiles - 'Oh my god - a foreigner!' - and I smile back. Now at
the beginning of my trip my Chinese is not good enough to break the
ice - and seemingly their English is not any better.
I always wonder where the people take the money from - those cafes
are extremely expensive. Last year a man told me that he saved money
to go to the cafes every few weeks to train his English - there are
always foreigners there and it's possible to talk to them without a
lot of fuss.
Through the dark windows I can see dozens of people shoving along the
sidewalk every single second. Most of them gaping at the stores, but
some of them walking in, maybe buying a walkman, a stereo-set or
maybe a nice dress or a stylish business suit. A boy is dragging his
parents into a shop apparently to buy a games console - 'my friend
has one of those and I want one too!' - we all know that line.
I slurp the last bit of my ice-coffee through the straw, definitely
feeling better now, and walk again out into the bustling street...
This travelogue is (c) by Thomas Sturm.
The author allows non-commercial publication of this text in electronic form,
as long as this paragraph is added to the end of the text.
For publication in any other form, please
write to: t_sturm@pacbell.net
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