In Shanghai, I often forget I'm living in China. Though I've studied Mandarin for a little over two years now, I can't understand Shanghai natives' "sang hay ooh" (Shanghainese, oh, it's a killer). Shanghai's a strange mix of the modern and the colloquial. I imagine at times that I'm in Bangkok or New York, but in those places people don't walk around the street in their pajamas.

 

Jane and Kelvin, if you've been with me since my adventures in the Development Zone began some two plus years ago, are fine South African acquaintances of mine, whom I met in Qingdao, Shandong province. They're now well into their fourth year of Chinatization and invited me to their present locale, Hangzhou, home of West Lake and a few other things to attract the eye. Visiting them was like visiting family.

 

Though Hangzhou is a well-devloped city that caters to tourists and visitors, it is not Shanghai. Whole wheat bread (hard to find in Qingdao) may be in no short supply, but there was no western supermarket was selling two dozen kinds of cheese ten minutes from Jane and Kelvin's apartment as I have near my place in Shanghai. Hangzhou was more like the old China I was used to. No French concession. The streets were wide, the bicycles didn't have to compete much with the cars, and European influence was minimal.

 

I enjoy strolling with Jane and Kelvin because they tarry and appreciate, tarry and appreciate. (Oh, yes, it seems they've grown more valuable with age). Kelvin always seeks out magic tricks and hand puzzles and secret Chinese medicinal cures and Jane rushes to porcelain shops. They're always trolling for sweets and snacks. Lunch never costs more than a dollar. (Kelvin taught me not to be afraid of street food). He also has an insatiable sweet tooth, just like me.

 

In one of Hangzhou's old market streets, Kelvin and I sat down at the cheapest song and dance show I've ever seen. "You pay three kuai and the old Chinaman sings you a song," said Kelvin. So I sat at the stool, smiled at the "old Chinaman" and he began his roaring one-man rendition of "the Journey West" in Chinese folk opera form. Our view of his show was supposed to center on the activity inside his magic box, which had eye-level peepholes of hand-painted plastic screens. Though the peephole was as blurry as the bottom of a Coke bottle, I made out the monkey king, the monk pig, and more than one Bodhisattva. Before we knew it, a crowd the size of my home town had gathered. As the "old Chinaman" lustily heaved his smokey lungs and clanged his gongs and raised his screens, Kelvin and I eyed each other like two gorrillas in a cage. Who was really putting on the show here? The two foreigners with their eyes to the peephole or the old man waving like a vaudeville madman? Kelvin yucked it up--as he's so good at doing--and said "ting bu dong" ("I don't understand") to the crown, to much applause.

 

I woke early the next day for the return trip to Shanghai. Two and a half hours by train, with no hitch but the train carriage couplers. Then I was in Shanghai. In this "no-night city," there are shopping malls. In Hangzhou, there's the China I knew and still love.