Solitary Travels: King's Lynn

July 2012

With my dissertation handed in and my friends either heading home or still working on research I decided to take some day trips. So, I began with Kings Lynn. Only a 1 hour train ride outside of Cambridge it made for a good introduction into solitary traveling. Equipped with a book (my first Agatha Christie novel actually) and an umbrella (this is England after all) I headed out.

By now I have the trains pretty figured out so that wasn't a problem. When I reached my destination, however, I realized I really hadn't done any research or planning. A website had suggested Kings Lynn as a nice day trip from Cambridge and I had purchased my train ticket in advance. But, beyond that, I had nothing figured out. I didn't know what sites to see, if there were any well known restaurants or any interesting historical facts. I didn't even know that King's Lynn is a port city in Norfolk county (pretty bad, I know).

There's nothing wrong with going someplace without a plan. Doing it when you're on your own, however, can cause some difficulties, as I did find out. But, ultimately wandering served me well. Although, I did end up with a map of King's Lynn and key attractions after I found the tourist information center.

Upon first arriving in King's Lynn and making my way to the city centre, I was immediately disappointed. It was just a big shopping area. I made my way to the Tuesday Market and was again disappointed. There was little variety in the stalls set up and very little personality. The feel of the place was just like going to a strip mall or something. Big and boring. The shopping area was literally just shops with a few scattered benches. It really made me appreciate the Cambridge city centre with it's pubs and colleges and colorful daily market interspersed among the shops. It has an identity, whereas the King's Lynn shopping area could have been anywhere.

I was pretty ready to give up but I knew I should give the place a chance so I followed some signs and walked around. It was when I got out of the shopping centre with its crowds of people and clothing sales that I actually saw King's Lynn. 

I walked out of town through a street lined on both sides with old brick buildings. Turning the corner I was suddenly at a church- King's Lynn Minster. Just beyond it was the South Quay (quay = wharf) along the River Great Ouse. As I said before, I hadn't known King's Lynn was a maritime city so finding the wharf was definitely a pleasant surprise. Later in the day I made me way back there to read on a bench with a great view of the river. The cool breeze made it a great spot to relax. 

As I continued exploring the trend seemed to be old stone buildings and structures. In a small garden were the remnants of a friary built in the 13th century.

Near the Greyfriars Tower was the local library. Libraries are everywhere so you wouldn't expect this to be anything special but, true to form, this too was a beautiful stone. I would love to go read in a library like that!

Within a huge park, filled with people chatting and taking strolls, there was a Gothihc style church and a 15th century Chapel. Outside of the chapel, which honestly looked more like a fort, I was stopped by a Jesuit trying to promote creationism. That led to an interesting conversation, to say the least. I think I managed to hold my own, although I'm sure neither of us walked away with altered views.

My favorite place is not something that would be found on any tourist map. It's someplace I just happened upon. I found an old church. I know I've already mentioned quite a few old churches, but this one was different. The church was clearly still in use and was surrounded by a small cemetery. I've always loved churches with the cemeteries right around them. The headstones are not in straight lines or all the same shape like huge cemeteries are today. They're personalized and become part of the landscape of the church, where people continue to worship. I've always been a little drawn to that type of cemetery. What made me like this one even more, however, was its location. This church was right in the middle of lines of apartment buildings. People were cycling home, going for walks with their pets, drying clothes outside their windows... they were living their lives, all with this cemetery right next to them. It was actually rather beautiful to see.

Overall, I really enjoyed King's Lynn. I'm definitely glad I didn't give up upon first entering the city centre. I would have missed out on a lot of interesting sites! With the success of this first solitary day trip I'm sure more will follow shortly.

Alligators and Cyclists Together in the Everglades

Living someplace does not mean knowing it—especially someplace as large and dynamic as Florida. It has beaches, Disney and NASA. It’s populated by immigrants, New Yorkers, retirees, the Seminole Tribe, and me. It is known (embarrassingly) for problems in past election polling and also as the only state where you travel north to get to “The South.” And, of course, it’s known as the home of the Everglades, the one-of-a-kind ecosystem that used to cover most of the state, that is, until it was drained to turn Florida into a winter haven for northerners.

But the Everglades are not gone entirely. These Florida wetlands are still teaming with life. Of course, I learned about its preservation in school. Every South Floridian child can tell you about the alien species threatening the Everglades and refer to horrifying photos of non-native pythons swallowing alligators whole and then dying from the exertion—their eyes definitely bigger than their stomachs. But I didn’t go on the middle-school field trip to the Everglades. I have never been on an air boat tour through the swampy waters. And, despite not living all that far from neighborhoods where lost gators wander into backyard pools, I had never seen an alligator up close outside of captivity.

When I was home for Christmas, this finally changed. I went on a 15 mile bike ride through the Everglades, a feat my Cambridge cycling had thankfully prepared me for. Winter in Florida still meant heading out early to avoid the mid-afternoon heat, wearing short sleeves, and applying sunscreen—a big change from the cold and overcast skies of England I had just left. With camera in hand and bicycles ready, we headed out.

Immediately you’re struck by the grace and beauty of the various birds—I couldn’t name them but the bird watchers seemed happy. And then there’s the landscape. It’s much different from a lake or a forest. The colors are warmer, with the sun coating everything. There are trees, but the dominant view is that of tall grass. IT might be mistaken for African grasslands with Lions instead of gators hiding in the brush—except here the grass was coming out of a water, and water makes all the difference.

Once further along the bike path we started to spot alligators resting by the side of the road, soaking in the sun. We stopped for photos, daring ourselves to step closer, the gators’ closed eyes giving us an extra (and likely unwise) boost of confidence—that is, until one of the alligators flinched. We also periodically spotted baby alligators hidden a bit more by the growth. And, of course this led to the important question, “where’s your Mommy?”

With a break after 7 miles to climb the lookout tower and rest while admiring the bird’s eye view of the Everglades, spotting a few gators from a safer distance, a showy bird strutting his stuff to my mother’s commentary, and gorgeous white birds flying above our heads as our bicycles disturbed their solitary walks, we finished our trip satisfied with all we had seen. 

The Everglades make up an amazing and diverse landscape in my home state that I am only now starting to fully appreciate. I definitely suggest a trip—cycling if you can. But remember, don’t feed the alligators!

Cambridge- Life in a University Town

I’ve been in Cambridge for a while now and my first impression hasn’t changed that much, although my appreciation and love for Cambridge has grown deeper. It is a beautiful but odd place. When you get further out from the university area, Cambridge is like any other small city, full of stores and houses, nothing that unique.

But the Cambridge I know is full of students and tourists, which of course really affects the feel of a place. I can’t walk in the city centre for five minutes without inadvertently winding up in the backdrop of someone’s photograph. The buildings are more than twice as old as the United States and are absolutely breathtaking, especially the ones along the river Cam. The bridges, buildings, punting on the River, the endless bicycles—it all makes me feel like I’m coming from another time. Especially when compared to the mere decades old US suburbia I’m used to.

I haven’t seen much else of England other than Cambridge, but I’m sure it is not representative, especially being here as a student. For me, it’s very much a university experience. Courses and my college activities dominate my life. And, as a grad student, those I interact with are from all over the world. But the traditions and feel here is unique—except maybe for “that other university” (Oxford).

It’s strange, though. In some ways Cambridge is classic England. The buildings, the gowns, and the hallowed halls where Isaac Newton, Francis Bacon, Charles Darwin, John Maynard Keynes, Lord Byron, and Stephen Hawking all studied. (Of course, other graduates such as Stephen Fry, Emma Thompson, and the fictional but beloved Mr. Darcy should not be overlooked) It all just seems so British. Granted, I’m American, so I could be completely wrong, but there seems to be such a strong tie between Oxbridge and the English identity, the number of tourists only serves as further support. 

For me, Cambridge has become home. It’s full of friends and fun, and even a little magic. I mean, we have college colors and wear gowns (cap and gown type gowns, not dresses). We eat formal dinners in grand halls with the fellows sitting at a high table. It’s all, so very Hogwarts. (This is of course my inner nerd talking and is also being said for the benefit of my Harry Potter loving friends back home!) I can’t wait to see what next term brings!

Bell Tower Adventure

Xi'an, 2011

With the promise to stop and explore anything interesting, my friend and I decided to walk the 6+ miles to the Bell and Drum Towers the Xi’an city center. And thus the adventure began.

A street vendor selling multi-colored popcorn led to an early stop down a side street. It turns out that the popcorn was all fruit flavored. There was strawberry, grape, and even honeydew. With such a promising start we couldn’t help but explore the rest of the street. It didn’t disappoint. 

We walked past rows of stalls selling fruits and bright red and yellow signs for the physical stores. Then we came across an alley of pool tables. Yes, pool tables. This was the real China, groups of local Chinese gathering together to play pool in a back alley. 

From there we continued on. We braved the dangers of crossing huge Chinese streets and learned, rather quickly, that if Chinese are running you should run too (or get squished by a car). We stopped in an international candy shop that also carried tiny bottles of liquor, expensive coca-cola, and very odd toys. There was also a tea and nut shop full of boxes depicting the Terracotta Warriors. Anything Terracotta Warriors is a clear sign of tourists (Chinese or foreign). We were close.

Soon we made it to the city center. It turned out that the Bell and Drum Towers, although the supposed purpose of our trip, held little actual interest (They also weren’t the first things we saw). We weren’t going to pay to go inside so pictures from the ground level and a quick laugh at the expense of the less frugal tourists who had paid to see a drum we could see perfectly from ground level and we were done. It was the rest of the city center that held the real interest.

We saw countless stalls of Chinese souvenirs, instruments, artwork and clothing for sale. As soon we spoke a word of Chinese these vendors were excited to talk, sometimes trying to make a sale, sometimes just expressing their curiosity. 

We saw two young Chinese women modeling wedding dresses in front of a Dairy Queen (the bridal shop was above it). As soon as we asked if we could take a photo they began to pose. 

When we decided to sit and rest on some steps with a good view of the Drum Tower we became the site for others to see. We started chatting with a couple Chinese tourists (in Mandarin). Before they left they asked if they could take a photo with us. Then, all of a sudden, a line formed. Groups of Chinese tourists were lined up to take photos with us or to have their children take photos of us. It was unbelievable! I’d had Chinese tourists take photos of me before, but form a line? It was hilarious. We probably could have charged money. 

  

Then we did some more shopping, this time on Huimin Jie (Muslim Street). While my friend was haggling a different vendor walked over to me. She said hello and asked if I remembered her. Sure enough, it was a vendor I had met the first time I was in Xi’an, back in 2009. I couldn’t believe that not only did she remember me but that she was the one to approach me. After all, the hours long mixed English-Chinese conversation my friends and I had with her and her and a couple other women had been one of the highlights of my last trip. Also, I had a photographic reminder of what she looked like. She, on the other hand, saw an endless stream of foreign tourists and had countless conversation. My mom told me it the woman remembered my smile. But, I’m fairly certain my red hair had something to do with it. 

It was finally time to go home. But there were didn’t want to walk back in the dark and there were no taxis available. So, we decided to brave the fear evoking, motorized rickshaw. They are fast, have no seat belts and are open on the sides. On top of that, the driver seemed to believe that its small size gave it permission to squeeze between cars, cross over medians, and drive on sidewalks. My friend’s reference to the Night Bus in Harry Potter was an apt comparison, but, as I pointed out, at least the Night Bus was magic. It may have been scary, but this adventure of a day really couldn’t have had any other fitting ending.

No English Allowed

Xi'an, 2011

My second trip to Xi’an, China was vastly different than the first. I wasn’t going as a tourist. I wouldn’t be staying in a hotel in the middle of the city. And, I wouldn’t be speaking English. I was back for intensive Mandarin language study complete with classes every day, Chinese roommate and peer tutor, and the infamous language pledge.

The language pledge made China a very different place. It wasn’t just this foreign land I was visiting. It wasn’t simply a fun trip or travel story. I was much more integrated than I had been as a study abroad student in Shanghai or an expat interning in Beijing. Mandarin seeped into every aspect of my life—the walk to class, chit chat with my roommate, asking the time, saying numbers out loud, meal time conversations, etc. The only break was contact home. And even that was mostly by email so my speaking and listening was almost exclusively Mandarin.

It may seem silly that a pledge would make so much of a difference. I mean, isn’t the point of going to another country to learn a language actually speaking it? Surprisingly, that is not often the case. When you get a bunch of English speakers together, no matter the country, they tend to revert to English. It’s about comfort and ease. It’s also about embarrassment in speaking the native country’s language. Why go through that when English is such a nice alternative?

The Chinese also are very nice and accommodating people. They see it as a sign of respect to use English, especially if you’re struggling. Also, many Chinese are learning English and see foreigners as an excellent chance to practice. Without the pledge limiting you and even your Chinese peers (roommate and tutor) to Mandarin it is surprisingly difficult to have fully Mandarin conversations inside your peer circles. Basically, if your friends, Chinese or foreign, know English, it will get spoken. (Especially since their English is usually much better than your Chinese)

An unexpected side effect of the pledge is that it forced you to get creative. If you didn’t know a word or how to say a word you couldn’t just revert to English. You had to talk your way out of your problem—in Mandarin. With some words that was near impossible. Pantomimes and long narrations for simple anecdotes became commonplace. When you were telling a story it wasn’t a huge deal if you fudged the details, said the wrong punch-line, or messed up a little. You were among friends and the stakes were low. In the classroom, however, when accuracy was more important, we often had hilarious sessions of Charades or Pictionary (with Mandarin words allowed) to get our questions or points across.

We also got over feelings of awkwardness pretty quickly. I mean, a bunch of Americans chatting and joking with each other in Mandarin (without a Chinese participant in sight) looks pretty weird. This led to many silly encounters. There were the conversations with other American students not in our program and thus not on the language pledge; they spoke English we responded in Mandarin. The was the encounter with a English traveler on one of our excursions; when one classmate started speaking Mandarin the traveler assumed he was Chinese, that is until the rest of us joined in. There were also our excursions and tours; small crowds of Chinese tourists would gather around at the oddity of a tour group full of Americans listening raptly to a Mandarin-speaking tour guide.

No English allowed means no fear allowed, no embarrassment allowed, no hesitation allowed. But it also means, new adventures allowed, fun stories allowed, and a great experience mandatory.

Going Local

Xi'an, 2009

It was our first night in Xi’an and we were already on our own. We didn’t want our time here to be a waste. It would be a shame to eat at some random chain or western-style restaurant and miss out on what this city had to offer. My plan was to ask the concierge for a restaurant suggestion.

The only problem was that we didn’t know what kind of restaurant we wanted and the concierge wouldn’t speak English. I, having taken Mandarin the longest, was our group’s designated speaker. We headed to the lobby hoping this plan would work.

I was still not very confident going up to random people and speaking Mandarin. I hated making a fool of myself and not being able to get my ideas clearly across. But, this was my idea so I had to follow through. Besides, I wanted to make the most of my China experience and without asking for ideas we had no clue where to go.

I went up the concierge and asked, “Ni zhidao yi ge hao fandian ma?”

All I got in response was a smile and a confused look. My grammar was probably off, but I was pretty sure that I had asked if he knew of a good restaurant. A huge knot formed in my stomach, this is what I hated about speaking a foreign language.

I decided it would probably be best to keep things simple, “fandian?”

Still, he had no clue what I was talking about. Were my tones right? That was definitely the word for restaurant. Now my heart was really pounding but I continued on. I tried other words for restaurant, cafeteria, and the like. Finally, the concierge caught on.

Of course, then he began asking questions. I tried to understand and at least pretended that I did. I also said “yes” a couple times to I’m not sure what question. I was almost positive that he was asking me if we wanted Xi’an style food and that I responded that we did.

Ultimately, we ended up with two restaurant names written on hotel business cards. One was for a Xi’an cuisine restaurant and one was a place to get Xi’an dumplings. We were directed to the restaurant, which was supposedly in the Drum and Bell Tower Square. The Drum Tower and Bell Tower were impossible to miss so we were fairly confident that we would have no trouble finding the restaurant. Honestly, I was just happy to have succeeded in getting the name for something written down.

We headed out, glad to have a destination and enjoying the sights of this amazing city. It wasn’t until we reached the first tower, however, that we realized just how far apart the two towers were. Which collection of buildings made up the Square? With just a handwritten name to go off of, how would we ever find the restaurant?

After a half-hour of wandering, my two companions wanted to call it quits and find somewhere else to eat. It was understandable. After all, we were all extremely hungry. Even though I had my heart set on some authentic Xi’an cuisine, I consented. Our quest seemed hopeless. We then turned down a little ally of store fronts and stopped to examine the first restaurant we saw. And, sure enough, the sign above it matched the name on the card. We had found it!

We naively thought that this was the end of our adventure, but then we stepped inside. All the occupants looked up at us as if they had never seen a Westerner before. This was kind of odd, considering we were in a more touristy part of the city. But, by now, we were used to drawing attention from locals, so we hardly noticed.

In Mandarin we told a woman working there that there was three of us. Instead of seating us, she looked at us strangely and then showed us to a counter. It seemed as if we were supposed to order at the counter, but none of us were quite sure what we were supposed to say.

The racing heart and knot in my stomach returned, this time accompanied by rosy cheeks. I had no clue how this restaurant worked. There didn’t appear to be a clear menu anywhere. I looked to the woman who had brought us to the counter and simply told her the truth, that I didn’t know.

She gave a slight smile and asked if we wanted a certain food item. I didn’t recognize the word, but one of the people I was with said he thought that was the typical Xi’an cuisine. So, we smiled back and said that yes, that’s what we wanted.

We followed her to a row of glass counters at the back of the restaurant, behind which were several cooks and a huge variety of food. The woman asked countless questions: Do you want this? Do these look good? What kind of meat do you want?

Some of it I understood and diligently translated for my companions and then gave our collective response. A lot of it, I just inferred from a combination of hand gestures, visuals, and the occasional recognized word. By the end, it seemed as if we had told her quite a long list of food we wanted. She then took us back to the counter and ordered for us. Considering everything we ordered, the price was really low. I guess that’s the benefit of eating at local restaurants not frequented by foreigners.

She then showed us to a table. It was clear that most people operated here with little assistance, but this woman was being kind enough to take a special interest in us, making sure we understood what we were supposed to do. Two of the dishes we had ordered arrived and they were incredibly delicious. But we also received bowls, each with a large circle of bread inside. I didn’t remember ordering any sort of soup item, and I had no idea what to do with the bread. This must have been the first thing the woman had asked if we wanted, the typical Xi’an dish.

The woman again smiled, and indicated that we were supposed to break the bread into small pieces. We diligently did as we were told, laughing and enjoying ourselves all the while. Looking around at the large groups doing the same, it was clear that the Xi’an dish was about more than just the food. It epitomized the ideal of “breaking bread together.”

When we were done the woman returned. We had bowls and receipts that we were surely supposed to do something with but, again, we were clueless. She took the bowls and told us a number. It was the number on the bottom of the bowl, so that when our soup was ready we’d be sure to get the one with our own bread pieces inside.

As we were finally eating our well-deserved Xi’an soup, a middle-aged Western couple walked in. They tried to sit down and were, like we had been, greeted by laughs and smiles. The same woman who had helped us went up to them and gestured over to us. The couple clearly spoke no Mandarin but the nice Chinese woman wanted to show them that it was possible for Westerners to eat here. I was sure the couple would approach us and ask us what they were supposed to do and, while I still didn’t know exactly how ordering worked, I would have happily helped. Before I even I had a chance to realize what they were doing, however, the couple was gone. They missed out; the food was delicious.

The Shanghai Streets

Shanghai, 2009

An American expat friend of mine invited me to tag along as she and some of her co-workers were shown the “real Shanghai.” We went on a rooftop garden and down back allies. We definitely saw a side of Shanghai quite different from the high-end shops and comfortable restaurants that abounded in the area of the Xuhui district I lived. The dilapidated and close-quartered housing with clothing hanging from lines strung up between windows was a long way from the Jiaotong University campus and the nearby shopping center my friends and I called the “Ball Mall.”

We explored a street market that was no longer on the street. It had to relocate indoors due to new regulations. One step inside, and I understood immediately. There were tables spread out everywhere in a garage-like building spanning too floors. How did it ever fit out on the streets? There were endless fruits and vegetables and horse-feed sized bags of rice and beans. There were also endless living sea creatures. There were eels, fish, crabs, and I think even turtles, all of them alive.

“Have you seen live eels before?” My expression confused the tour guide, who was a young college student.

“No,” I replied. “Americans usually buy their food already dead.”

That should have been a warning sign because next we reached the poultry. There were cages of living ducks and chicken ready to be killed to order. This stand was a full-service one; they even de-feathered and cut up the bird for you. I made a speedy getaway when I saw a Chinese woman point to a particularly plump hen and walk away. I was not eager to see that particular order filled.

Our little group then headed back into the streets and began walking down the ally behind housing structures. The buildings looked like they had never been painted. Clothing was out over lines, poles, or rafters between buildings, basically anything high enough off the ground. The worn color-less appearance and the narrow street probably made the buildings look shabbier than they really were.

They were the standard run-down rectangular structures we had seen a few other times during our tour. Their familiar nature made any oddities or deviations especially noticeable. Surprisingly, there were quite a few. We passed a couple of old women sitting outside a little open area near one of the buildings. At first I assumed they were simply enjoying each other’s company and perhaps people-watching. When we got closer, however, I noticed a store-quality ice-cream bar freezer. This little area was actually a small store. I couldn’t believe that these two women had set-up shop in the middle of an ally. Was it their home and they were just using the space to make extra money? Did they actually get many customers?

The next strange thing I saw was a bright blue conglomeration of pipes. The blue was especially stunning against the lack-luster surroundings. I could only tell what it was because I had seen one like it earlier that day. It was an outdoor exercise machine. These machines don’t require any electricity or fancy mechanical devices. They were of toy-like quality. 

Actually, they were of the same type of piping used for monkey bars, sailor’s wheels, and other accessories vital to childish games of pretend. Instead of making up playgrounds, these contraptions could be found in public exercises parks like the one I had seen. This particular one, however, had somehow wound up fastened to the side of an alleyway street, not appearing to get much use.

I kept walking, wondering what interesting sights I might witness. As we continued, a teenage girl passed us. She was chatting on a cell phone and wearing tight jeans and a fitted t-shirt. I don’t know why the sight of her surprised me so much. I suppose my surroundings had tricked me into believing that technology had yet to reach this corner of Shanghai. Or maybe I wrongly assumed that a street’s outward appearance was an accurate indicator of the type of people who lived there.

We reached our target street. There we met the man whose house we would be visiting. As we made our way down the road we were stopped by the man’s neighbor. This was one person who definitely fit the surroundings. His clothing was ripped and worn. He invited us into his little dingy room. With our host’s approval we filed in, curious to see what this man had to show us. Inside the room was empty except for a few chairs and the man’s prized possession—a mechanized mahjong table.

It was pristine and high-tech. It reminded me of Americans and their cars or electronic toys. Regardless of fortune, certain Americans will just splurge on the fancy cars or high-tech gadgets. It didn’t matter what food you ate or the quality of bed you slept in as long as you appeared well-off. This overly showy and needlessly automatic gaming table was this man’s Ferrari; it was his point of pride and prestige. This was clearly evident in how he insisted that us Western strangers come see it and even invited us to come back later for a game.

The man who would be our host for lunch was much less showy. He was older and very humble. His small dwelling was on the second floor of a building. It was cluttered. A cabinet was full of a hodge-podge of different items. One item in particular stood out. It was a portrait leaning against the wall of our host, considerably younger.

We crowded around the small table and waited as our host showed us the proper method of putting meat into the round circles of dough to created dumplings. We laughed as we pinched the dough to no avail, overstuffed the circles, or created deformed blobs instead of the properly pinched half-moons.

The old man smiled good-naturedly then shuffled off to cook our first set of dumplings. The stove and sink were located in what at first glance appeared to merely be a small hallway. He periodically returned to our table with some item he had cooked for us. There were shrimp and vegetables. Soon our dumplings also arrived at the table.

When our appetite began to slacken, our host was concerned. Through the translations of our tour guide he insisted we eat more and tried to make sure we enjoyed everything. He wanted to make sure we got well more than our fill.

I couldn’t eat any more, but I didn’t want to offend. So, I turned to the man and said, “dou hen hao chi.” This simple complement, the best I could articulate, did wonders. By the way the man’s face lit up, you would think it was the highest of praise. Perhaps the use of his native tongue added weight to my words.

Due to the time, we reluctantly parted this man’s company. We had all thoroughly enjoyed our meal in this modest home. After leaving, we left the back allies, arriving on a bigger road. The beauty of this waterfront street provided a sharp contrast to the roads we had just left. The picturesque quality of the water with tall buildings and an arched bridge in the background was unmistakable. Bright flowers jutting into the scene added whimsy and color that I couldn’t help but stop to admire. It was the kind of spot that the idle tourist would love and that city tour books would provide pictures of. For me, however, this spot was merely the face of the cities. The allies and the people I had just left was the heart.

Our little band of explorers parted ways once we reached the art gallery district. The expats were headed back to Pudong. Pudong was the newer section of Shanghai, full of office buildings, high rises, and Westerners. It was as far away from the “real Shanghai” we saw today as you could get. When they headed off by cab, the tour guide and I began walking to the subway stations; we were both Puxi dwellers, living west of the river.

We walked slowly; weary from a full day on-foot. I preferred to casually chat with the tour guide, who was near my own age, and take in the surroundings still so foreign to me. As was typical in Shanghai, we saw a lot of construction. Shanghai was rushing to get ready for the World Expo that would be held there the coming summer. The inconvenience of an entire city under construction was a small price to pay for perfection when visitors from across the globe would be pouring in.

We passed a group of construction workers. There was nothing particularly noticeable about this bunch. They were scruffy guys in dirty outfits, a common sight. They, however, instantly noticed me. They called after me in Mandarin. I didn’t need to understand the words to recognize them as the stereotypical construction worker cat-calls. The tour guide went to talk to them, answering a question I had not understood. The construction men laughed in response to whatever answer the tour guide had given them.

She rejoined me and explained the exchange. “They wanted to know where you were from that your skin was so pale.”

“Oh! I’m a redhead, that’s why I’m pale.”