A China Journal

Day Three: Shanghai – and the Oriental Pearl TV Tower

Punctual as a Chairman Mao watch, Leon met us at our hotel at 6:30 a.m. to ferry us out to the airport. The commuter traffic was in full swing and the ride to the airport was largely a bumper-to-bumper one. There was the formality of the 50-yuan airport tax to be paid before we could check in and Leon helped us negotiate that and the counter staff before bidding us goodbye at Security.

The two-hour China Airlines flight to Shanghai was uneventful, though I was struck by the loveliness of one or two of the hostesses. More on the pulchritude of Oriental women in general, and Chinese ones in particular, later.

At Shanghai’s Pudong airport we were met by Chris, a slim, animated young woman, with funky spectacles, a perpetual smile and an endearing accent. She looked overjoyed to meet us, as if we had made her day just by showing up at the airport.

We climbed aboard our vehicle, a seven-seater van for just the two of us, Chris and the driver and headed into the city. All along the drive, Chris chatted excitedly with us, complimenting us on our choice of hotel (“Four Seasons? One of top three in Shanghai!”), reassuring us about the safety of the city (“I love to go to the bar at late nights and I can go home safely.”), pointing out buildings of interest to us along the way (“See that is the Museum”), breaking off for a quick conversation on her cell phone, or to natter away with the driver in Chinese.

We dropped our bags off at the hotel then set off for lunch at the Shanghai Pujing restaurant. Chris explained the layout of the city along the banks of the Huangpo river, and how one bank was the older traditional city while the other was the modern high-rise part. Lunch was another culinary treat, but instead of being joined by Chris and the driver, we ate alone. Chris explained that the driver had a cold and didn’t want to pass it on to us. I suspect he just wanted to enjoy his food without having to be polite to tourists.

After lunch it was a short drive to the Oriental Pearl TV Tower, a futuristic needle in the sky, ornamented with two enormous lurid pink globes positioned along its height. It looked something like a 70’s psychedelic nightmare of the Eiffel Tower. Chris proudly informed us that it was the second such tower to be built, after Toronto’s TV tower and that it was the tallest one in Asia. It certainly looked it. the oriental pearl tv tower

A cold wind was blowing as we waited at the entrance gate for Chris to get the tickets and we spent the time, craning our necks at the enormous height of the Tower and goggling at the more traditional but breathtaking Huajing Mansions across. This building looked as if someone had taken a traditional Chinese pagoda, fed it lots of steroids so it put on amazing bulk and height, and then plonked it down in the middle of downtown Shanghai.

Chris had returned from the ticket counter as we clicked away and was hopping from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. She was clad only in a t-shirt and jeans and she charmingly informed us that “in the morning I saw the sun and thought it would be warm day.” Obviously, even the natives can be taken by surprise.

We scurried into the huge lobby of the Tower and joined the queue for the express lift up to the observation deck 400-odd meters in the sky. There were hostesses clad in high-necked Chinese jackets and floor-length gowns, looking very chic and lovely, waiting to guide us to the lifts. This they did with elaborate hand gestures, much as if they were participating in a ritual Indian dance. In the lobby we passed an enormous Chinese lion carved from a single tree trunk, with a fierce mane that looked like Medusa’s head of snakes. The obligatory red Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling, a touch of tradition in an otherwise super-modern, steel-and-glass environment.

We boarded the elevator with about twenty other tourists, mainly Japanese, and were whisked up at ear-popping speed. One of the charming hostesses accompanied us with a brief introduction in Chinese followed by a translation in impeccable, if accented, English, welcoming us to the Tower and telling us its history. The Tower’s history, of course, is not a patch on something like the Great Wall or the Summer Palace: it’s the view that is its real claim to fame.

The view of Shanghai spread at one’s feet is truly spectacular. Much like other institutions such as the Empire State Building in New York and the more recent Millennium Eye in London, a dazzling sight awaits you as you emerge from the elevator. There are handy signs detailing important landmarks, but you can forget all that and just soak in the view. By far the best view is that across the Huangpo river, where the old colonial buildings around the Bund are dwarfed by towering skyscrapers and look down their snooty noses at the traffic that bustles by. This view reminded me of the magnificent but shabby stone office buildings of the Ballard Estate area in Bombay or the more well-known ones on Regent Street or Oxford Street. There was one particularly striking low glass-fronted building on the waterfront, reflecting an orange ship moored next to her on the river. the view

At the tourist trap counter I picked up a cheerful stone pig to add to my growing collection. China is the first country I’ve encountered where the pig is treated with respect by artists. Most other countries’ artisans seem to focus on more ‘noble’ creatures such as the lion, elephant, peacock, horse, dog or cat. Only in China was the pig treated with the reverence it deserves. I added no less than six different pigs to my collection in these four days. us and the view

We had to descend a floor to catch the return elevator down and in the lobby we spent a few minutes inspecting the waxworks tableaux of ancient Chinese costumes and tradesmen. chinese waxworks

Day Three: Mah Foot Mah-ssage

My wife was dying to experience the sybaritic lifestyle of the rich and famous, well, maybe the middle-class and unknown. And what better way to do this than a Chinese foot massage!

I must explain that I do not share her views on the therapeutic and calming effects of a massage. The thought of a male rubbing his hands all over my body, coating me with gunky oil, while he kneads and pummels my flesh, nauseates me. Substitute female for male and the situation gets more interesting. But the thought of that oil (and no, substituting creams and lotions doesn’t help) makes my skin crawl.

You must therefore understand with what trepidation I succumbed to the pleadings (well, threats, more like) of my wife and the reassurances of Chris, who insisted we could not return without experiencing the joys of a foot massage. I was somewhat shaky on the concept and once I got over my qualms, I was visioning dreams of a petite barefoot Chinese girl doing a tap dance on my bare back a la the movies. (MASH, particularly, has this as a recurring theme with barefoot Japanese geishas, but the principle is the same.)

The reality turned out to be a lot more prosaic. Chris guided us to what she called Walking Street (a view of the Street), a pedestrian thoroughfare lined with department stores and shops. I never did find out if that was its real name or merely her shorthand reference for it. She dived into one of the stores and escorted us up to the second floor and into a small room with one glass wall. Curtains discreetly hid most of what was behind the glass wall, but we could see a room similar to ours where a burly man seemed to be lying comatose on a couch.

We prostrated ourselves on similar couches in the room and some intense jabbering took place between Chris and the maitre d’. We were asked our preferences, “Strong or mild?” I chose mild, wisely as it turned out, because my foot molester turned out to be a petite Chinese girl. So far so good, but there the MASH similarity ended. It was I who had to be barefoot, not her. My wife had chosen strong, so she ended up with a young lad who couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

My masseuse was a cute little Chinese girl who resembled a little piglet. Lest I be accused of misogyny, I hasten to add that I just love pigs (see my comments on pig purchases supra) and I am being very complimentary. I found her exceedingly cute, the sort whose cheeks you want to pinch and whose chin you want to chuck. Tho-thweet, in short. She, of course, spoke not a word of English, and I spoke no Chinese: all we had was the language of feet and hands.

She gestured to me to lie down and commenced with a warm up cracking of knuckles. The knuckles she cracked were mine, not hers. The hand mini-massage was a complimentary appetizer, apparently. She then proceeded to divest me of my shoes and socks and roll up my jeans. Then she left the room together with her co-masseur. They returned in tandem a few minutes later, each bearing a steaming tub of water. We were invited to soak our feet in them and scald the skin off. Well, that’s what it felt like. The base of the tub was lined with smooth pebbles and the water was hot, hot, hot! After the initial shock, it felt quite relaxing, and the masseur-masseuse couple left us to our own devices.

My wife was so tickled at the concept of coercing me into a massage that she kept clicking away with my camera, while I attempted to maintain a dignified posture. As the water cooled down, the massy-couple returned bearing refills of steaming water. This went on for a couple of times until our feet were softened and pink and wrinkly.

The massy-couple entered bearing towels and proceeded to get to work in unison. This was something like synchronized swimming. My little masseuse had soft podgy hands and she spent the next twenty minutes kneading my foot, pulling my toes, pummeling my instep, thwacking my heel, smacking her hand against my ankle, trying to push her thumb and then her wrist through my sole and out the other side of my foot, and generally working herself up into quite a state. I began to feel sorry for her and worried that she might do herself some damage, especially when one considered that she was only about twice as large as my foot. After twenty minutes of this violent exercise, she lovingly draped a towel around my foot and proceeded to repeat the exercise on my other foot. I can see why massage is supposed to be good for you, but if you want to lose calories, giving is probably more worthy than receiving. feet and the woman

In between feet she eyed me with interest and patted herself on the chest and said “China” and then raised an enquiring eyebrow at me. After I repeated “India” a couple of times, she seemed to get it. “Ah, Indu, Indu!” she exclaimed. That pushed the envelope as far as communication between us went.

She also seemed to think that my toenails left something to be desired, because she patted them and then made scissoring gestures in the air and pronounced, “Eight yuan.” Rightly assuming that she was offering a pedicure for eight yuan rather than making a bid for rights to my feet, I agreed. Another sixteen year old boy appeared with a range of impressive blades and scalpels and proceeded to delicately cut my toenails with as much artistry as a surgeon performing a facelift. (the pedicure) When he was done he gave me a grin, wrapped up his implements and disappeared. My little Miss Piglet reappeared and continued with her exercise on my feet.

I was beginning to grow quite attached to her, when she pronounced herself through and invited me to sit up and turn around with my back to her. She then attempted to tear my head off at the roots and cross my arms behind my back. Quite enjoyable. This comprised the complimentary dessert, apparently, and lasted for about five minutes. My wife was similarly administered to by her sixteen year old boy slave. I think I got the better deal.

We then posed for affectionate photos, (me and her and she and him) and sauntered out into the lobby feeling like two new pairs of feet, to discover that Chris had vanished. Before we could panic too much, she reappeared breathless and entered into an animated discussion with the hostess behind the reception desk. My little Miss Piglet disappeared behind the staff door, no doubt to lie down and recover from her strenuous workout and we paid up and departed after two hours of sybaritic abandon.

Day Three: The end of day’s play

Outside, we decided to refresh ourselves with a cup of coffee and call up our kids back in Bombay. There was no Starbucks in sight, but Chris located a charming coffee shop inside a department store overlooking the shop floor where shoppers could buy government-quality-approved packaged foods such as dried shrimps, seaweed, pigs trotters and other delicacies. The café itself appeared to be a haunt for young couples and we were the odd out of place trio. The coffee, though, was excellent. us on the phone to our kids

It was dusk by now and Chris enquired if we wanted to be dropped back at the hotel. She was going off for a round of Internet gaming with her friends, so we got directions back to the hotel (which consisted of instructions on how to direct the taxi driver) and we bid her a fond farewell, advising her to dress warmly the next day. She chortled merrily and said that we sounded just like her mother and then trotted off into the night. the lovely and resourceful Chris

We wandered up and down the Walking Street, popping in to stores to window shop and make fruitless enquiries for camera batteries. We reached the Bund at one end of the Street and tried to take some pictures of the spectacularly lit up and ubiquitous Oriental Pearl TV Tower, but they didn’t come out right in the poor light. Still surfeited after lunch, we opted for a quiet but substantial ice cream at a Haagen-Dasz restaurant and then flagged down a taxi on one of the roads that intersected Walking Street at intervals.

The taxi driver, of course, spoke less English than we did Mandarin, but with the help of a card thoughtfully provided to us by the hotel, he figured out where we were staying.

And the morning and the evening were the third day.