Last days in Shanghai

The purchase of tickets on a ship to Tsingtao required a visit to the docks. To make our trip a little more interesting, we were confronted with torrential downpours caused by Typhoon Ed that hit shore as a tropical storm just north of Shanghai.  In 30 plus degree weather, cold was not an issue however, with rain streaming down our faces and limited visibility, it did make finding the ticket office a bit more interesting.  No line-ups greeted us like every purchase we’d made for transportation in China.  This should have been a warning.  Interactions with Chinese clerks were always challenging because we knew almost no Chinese and they knew no English.  This particular purchase proved even more challenging because we first had to grab the attention of a woman who didn’t want to serve us in the first place.  Two gweilos interrupted her otherwise peaceful afternoon so she ignored our pleas until they reached the level of irritation that defied ignorance. 

A few days after the purchase of our outbound ship across the South China Sea, Mr. Ye approached Nicola, Marilyn and I with an invitation to participate in a television commercial for the state television.  After the shock of discovering that commercials actually existed in a communist state, we gracefully accepted.  Mr. Ye told us to dress in our best clothes so I discarded my shorts and tried on a pair of pleated, blue cotton pants that the University of British Columbia wrote was expected in a country where shorts were considered unacceptable.  Too bad, the Chinese hadn’t received the same memo.  We were also told to bring our own toilet paper which led Myrna, one of the older ladies in the course, to ask Nicola to be her roommate.  She feared she’d be forced to bunk with Lorna, another woman her age, who had failed to bring her own.  Ironically, when Nicola invited both women to our wedding in a remote and freezing Tumbler Ridge, they came together.   You just can’t fight providence. 

I had lost so much weight from the heat and eating a fat free Chinese diet, that my special pants barely hung on my waist and looked ridiculous.  Both Marilyn and Nicola wore loose fitting, cotton dresses that were ideal for the climate.  Before going to the location, we detoured to a local beauty parlour.  Nicola’s hair was already short so little could be done with it while Marilyn received an unwanted and unneeded haircut in a style she never imagined for herself.  To make matters worse, her middle-aged hair dresser announced that trying to make a nice haircut with her hair was like trying to make a beautiful dress out of a cheap piece of cloth.  I received no such scolding by the feminine young man who blew dry my hair to the same bouffant perfection as his and many of the hair of other, young, stylish men of Shanghai.  Once finished, it stood about three inches above my hair with the same helmet like appearance as John Travolta’s in “Saturday Night Fever.”

Filming took place in the bar of the ­­­­New World Shanghai Hotel, the latest and greatest of Western hotels in Shanghai back in 1984, at least from the Chinese point of view.  The main filming took place in the bar where, just to the side, a long curving staircase led from the main floor to the restaurant just above.  Windows extended the full two stories providing enough light that the obviously inexperienced director felt no need for fills or reflectors.  Upon our arrival, one glance at us, or more specific me, and he’d decided that we just weren’t “it.”  So, instead, I presume he went looking and sure enough, he found “it” in a young couple dining in the restaurant just above our heads on the second floor.  They were both wearing shorts, the girl’s being considerably shorter than the guys.  They were both attractive but really, what the fuck? I kept thinking.  You dress me up like a buffoon and then abandon whatever idea one of your flunkies imagined as the ideal young Western man only to prefer what I would have worn normally if you’d asked.  While the tourists danced to the piece of junk boom box the Chinese were attempting to advertise, Nicola and I were relegated to a table by a pillar supporting the staircase while Marilyn balanced the image of white folks lovin’ the beats by sitting at another table by the windows on the other side of the room. 

We received a plastic wallet and key chain from the same manufacturer, something like Shanghai #2

Me (with the hait), Nicola, and Mr. Ye

Radio Factory.  However, the real compensation for putting up with all that nonsense was lunch with Mr. Ye.  We’d both felt a connection to the man and I’m not sure if it was because we were looking for something from him or vice versa.  Nicola and I both had very empathetic fathers who leaned toward the left on the political spectrum.  we grew up in families where money was valued however not worshipped.  Occupational ambition had not been encouraged for either of us.  We were encouraged to love learning and to be good to people.  Both our fathers were promoted to become school principals by default.  Their superiors recognized their leadership capacities and encouraged them to apply for principalships.  They didn’t have to sell themselves. Both spoke out when they believed that others were being wronged.  And both were maligned by their superintendents toward the end of their careers.

Final Dinner

I felt the same about Mr. Ye.  He wanted what was best for his country.  He lived through the cultural revolution.  He embraced the free exchange of ideas and he complained to us that change wasn’t happening in a manner that he would like. He loved literature and enjoyed talking about the books we’d read.  He sought recommendations for English books he should read in the future if he could get his hands on them.  And he told us about his wife and infant son that he cared about deeply. 

Chinese showing their pipes.

On the last day of the course, before we all travelled our separate ways, the instructors and translators held a final banquet in our honour.  As a final gesture of cultural exchange our Chinese hosts regaled us with a few songs they all learned from school or as loyal Mao followers we’ll never know.  We responded with a Beatles song or two, a rendition of “This Land is Your Land” and the title song for “The Beverly Hillbillies.”  Our final going away anthem was, of course, “Auld Lang Syne” at which point, I’m embarrassed to say, I became verklempt and snuck off the washroom.  The emotional impact of that song has remained with me ever since.  Perhaps, it’s always been there.