Lost on Planet China - J. Maarten Troost [61]
Meanwhile, as I sampled the frog (legs only, like chicken with Chinese characteristics) and savored the goose (excellent, but why so many bones? And difficult to eat with chopsticks), the Englishman next to me continued to prattle on about Europe.
“…Italy is known for art. Germany for music. England for literature…”
Truly, a nitwit. I paid the bill, and as I walked past them, I noticed that he’d become a little more expansive in his sharing of knowledge.
“…Suits are single-breasted or double-breasted…”
And this was interesting how?
“…there are two countries famous for silk, Thailand and China…”
And you don’t think she knows that, Romeo?
Really. I had never encountered such a pedantic clod in my life. I left, and as I turned the corner, I nearly tripped over a dead pig on the sidewalk. They’re perilous places, sidewalks in China. It’s not just leaky toddlers one needs to watch out for. But I sidestepped the carcass, and as I digested my bullfrog I refused to let my mind linger on food-sanitation issues because, really, in China it’s just pointless.
I returned to bustling Nanjing Lu, noting the bamboo scaffolding climbing up the sides of these modern buildings, and far above me the window washers dangling on swings cleaning the facade of the Marriot Hotel next to the Ferrari dealership. Hordes of shoppers were going through the 10-yuan bin at the Shanghai Number 1 Department Store. Soon, I was encountering all sorts of friendly people again offering to sell me a Rolex or a Mont Blanc pen, or inquiring whether I’d like to make love Chinese girl or possibly visit their art studio. I talked to everyone who approached me, whether loathsome tout or earnest art student, simply because it’s good to talk now and then, and in China I made do with what few opportunities came my way. A Rolex? Is it real? Make love Chinese girl? Gosh. Sounds intriguing. But how about make love Chinese man?
My conversations with pimps were brief.
I made my way across the expanse of Renmin Square, declining friendly offers from pretty women to enjoy a traditional Chinese tea service with them, knowing as I did so that this was not actually an invitation to experience traditional Chinese culture in a flirtatious environment, but simply an opportunity to drink highly overpriced tea with a woman counting the minutes until she can bolster her commission by luring another befuddled laowai inside. Instead, I wandered onward to the Shanghai Museum, the contents of which once needed to be hidden under banners of Maoist slogans to prevent the Red Guards from smashing its collection of old culture. Today, however, the museum was offering an exhibition titled “From Cezanne to Pollock: Master Drawings from MOMA,” which was interesting—but not nearly as interesting as the game show being played live on national TV right there in the lobby. There was an enormous JumboTron television that featured game-show participants and a studio audience who were apparently watching the goings-on inside the museum, where a cameraman was filming a game-show host in TV makeup asking questions to several museum visitors. I spent a moment watching them tape this show inside the museum. I didn’t really know what was going on, though it seemed strangely loud and raucous given that we were in the general hushiness of a museum. I made several attempts to try to get into the picture, where I hoped to avail myself of the opportunity to make silly faces and peace signs on Chinese national television, but there were twenty guards minimum and they did not look like the sort of people one should trifle with, so I headed onward to the Chinese Calligraphy Hall.
I really don’t have any particular expertise or insight into the dominant trends affecting the calligraphy of the early Tang Dynasty or the dreamy landscape