Sunday, August 01, 2004
The Center of the Universe
Sight-seeing in Beijing today. We hired a taxi to get there and set out after breakfast. Our driver skipped the toll road and took the scenic route through the countryside. It looked like business as usual this Sunday morning among the peasants. I asked S if her brother and mom were familiar with the common Sunday morning ritual of attending church in America and, if so, what they thought of it. She said that not that many Americans really went to church and those that did, like one of her close friends, were just trying to find a wife or girlfriend and get laid. I begged to differ and told her that most Americans, by all appearances, really do hold a sincere belief in the spiritual importance of attending church and worshipping Jesus. She insisted that this was not the case and that my view had simply been distorted by my grandparents’ habits.
Our first stop, fittingly enough, was the Temple of Heaven. On one of the terraces there, there is a little smoothed hump in the pavement that is supposed to represent the center of the universe or something. All the Chinese visitors would stand on it and have their photo taken. S hopped on it and started voguing big-time. I finally had to tell her to stop hogging the center of the universe.
There is a Starbucks inside the Forbidden City. Several buildings are beings refurbished. Signs and sounds of constructions are everywhere. This annoyed S highly, who felt that the historical integrity of the place was under assault. I tried to make the case that the historical integrity of a site was only as good as its structural integrity, but S was dismissive.
We started at the entrance of the Forbidden City, at the end opposite the Tiananmen Gate, and worked out way toward the gate, grabbing lunch at a little Chinese diner inside the city along the way. We also stopped to see a well-known well where a famous concubine had been dropped during the Ming or Qing Dynasty. I don’t think a melon would have fit down the opening, but perhaps her executioners had had the decency to chop her into little bits first.
In one of the large courtyards, S’s brother pointed out a particular set of rooms to her. S explained that the name of one of their ancestors, a provincial governor or something, was listed on a roll preserved there. She asked if I had any notable ancestors. I told her that one of relatives (an aunt once or twice removed) had traced our ancestry back to the Mayflower, but then I had Filipino friends who could trace their ancestry back to the Mayflower. More likely, I told her, my ancestors were the ones you called when you wanted a royal concubine dropped down a well.
Inside the Tiananmen Gate, there is a hall featuring a large oil painting of Mao, at some founding ceremony, looking over crowds assembled in the street from the Gate. It looked like a GOP photo op -- S pointed out all the different ethnic groups represented in the background.
From Tiananmen Gate, we proceeded to Tiananmen Square, across the street, by means of an underground crosswalk. We paused along the way for photos of the famous Mao portrait. I told S that I wanted a shirt like his. She said I could get it when we visited the silk market back in her mom’s city in a couple weeks. I later asked S how much longer she thought the Mao portrait would be hanging there. She didn’t see it coming down in her lifetime. She said was a symbol of the independence and stability of China. This might be a good wager for longbets.org.
There were a few guards standing on duty in the square. They all looked about 16 years old. S had me pose next to one of them for a photo. I was worried that this might be a capital offence, but the guard simply ignored me in the style of a Buckingham Palace guard. (The get-up is not quite so ridiculous.) I was of a mind to protest the unlawful imprisonment of the feudal lord’s wife on the soap opera we watched the night before, but I had forgotten my picket signs. S and I renewed our debate from the night before with S insisting that the woman was evil anyway and that her imprisonment and the black eye she had received were really too lenient. Despite his unconstitutional methods (the show was a historical drama), she found the feudal lord, her husband, rather soft on crime. I found it interesting that the lord who imprisoned her was the protagonist. You'd never see a sympathetic character do something like that on American television, no matter how venal his wife.
From Tiananmen Square, we phoned our taxi driver to pick us up and we continued on to the Summer Palace. It was now late afternoon and it was pleasant to relax in the pavilions next to the lake and watch the sun sink into the grey film rising above the hills on the horizon. I was impressed by the number of lotus flowers growing in the coves of the lake. Our attention was diverted by an old man line-fishing from a bridge. The poetry of the scene was somewhat spoiled when it became apparent that what he was fishing for was discarded bottles and cans.
All the public restrooms in Beijing are rated on a 4-star scale by some kind of tourist council and the results are displayed on a plaque attached to the front of the restroom. The restroom we visited at the Summer Palace, like the restroom we visited at the Temple of Heaven was 3-star, but I told S I could only allow it 2. There was a strong odor and too much liquid on the floor.
We had dinner in the red lamp district (not to be confused with the red light district – red lamps, I learned, signify restaurants) not far from the Summer Palace. Dinner was delicious. It included a dish much like hashbrowns, her brother’s favorite. Not quite as crispy, more oily. I really liked it, but S sent it back for being too salty and was satisfied when it returned too vinegary. There was also beefsteak, a dish that reminded me of camper’s stew, and a special thin garlic bread, a house specialty that is prepared at a stand in a corner of the large central dining area that looked like a plaza and had a pavilion with a table in it in the middle. S ordered a bottle of 112-proof rice wine, the local favorite, but then refused to let me drink it. Just as well. It smelled like nail-polish remover and the two sips I did take left my guts burning for the rest of the night.
Our first stop, fittingly enough, was the Temple of Heaven. On one of the terraces there, there is a little smoothed hump in the pavement that is supposed to represent the center of the universe or something. All the Chinese visitors would stand on it and have their photo taken. S hopped on it and started voguing big-time. I finally had to tell her to stop hogging the center of the universe.
There is a Starbucks inside the Forbidden City. Several buildings are beings refurbished. Signs and sounds of constructions are everywhere. This annoyed S highly, who felt that the historical integrity of the place was under assault. I tried to make the case that the historical integrity of a site was only as good as its structural integrity, but S was dismissive.
We started at the entrance of the Forbidden City, at the end opposite the Tiananmen Gate, and worked out way toward the gate, grabbing lunch at a little Chinese diner inside the city along the way. We also stopped to see a well-known well where a famous concubine had been dropped during the Ming or Qing Dynasty. I don’t think a melon would have fit down the opening, but perhaps her executioners had had the decency to chop her into little bits first.
In one of the large courtyards, S’s brother pointed out a particular set of rooms to her. S explained that the name of one of their ancestors, a provincial governor or something, was listed on a roll preserved there. She asked if I had any notable ancestors. I told her that one of relatives (an aunt once or twice removed) had traced our ancestry back to the Mayflower, but then I had Filipino friends who could trace their ancestry back to the Mayflower. More likely, I told her, my ancestors were the ones you called when you wanted a royal concubine dropped down a well.
Inside the Tiananmen Gate, there is a hall featuring a large oil painting of Mao, at some founding ceremony, looking over crowds assembled in the street from the Gate. It looked like a GOP photo op -- S pointed out all the different ethnic groups represented in the background.
From Tiananmen Gate, we proceeded to Tiananmen Square, across the street, by means of an underground crosswalk. We paused along the way for photos of the famous Mao portrait. I told S that I wanted a shirt like his. She said I could get it when we visited the silk market back in her mom’s city in a couple weeks. I later asked S how much longer she thought the Mao portrait would be hanging there. She didn’t see it coming down in her lifetime. She said was a symbol of the independence and stability of China. This might be a good wager for longbets.org.
There were a few guards standing on duty in the square. They all looked about 16 years old. S had me pose next to one of them for a photo. I was worried that this might be a capital offence, but the guard simply ignored me in the style of a Buckingham Palace guard. (The get-up is not quite so ridiculous.) I was of a mind to protest the unlawful imprisonment of the feudal lord’s wife on the soap opera we watched the night before, but I had forgotten my picket signs. S and I renewed our debate from the night before with S insisting that the woman was evil anyway and that her imprisonment and the black eye she had received were really too lenient. Despite his unconstitutional methods (the show was a historical drama), she found the feudal lord, her husband, rather soft on crime. I found it interesting that the lord who imprisoned her was the protagonist. You'd never see a sympathetic character do something like that on American television, no matter how venal his wife.
From Tiananmen Square, we phoned our taxi driver to pick us up and we continued on to the Summer Palace. It was now late afternoon and it was pleasant to relax in the pavilions next to the lake and watch the sun sink into the grey film rising above the hills on the horizon. I was impressed by the number of lotus flowers growing in the coves of the lake. Our attention was diverted by an old man line-fishing from a bridge. The poetry of the scene was somewhat spoiled when it became apparent that what he was fishing for was discarded bottles and cans.
All the public restrooms in Beijing are rated on a 4-star scale by some kind of tourist council and the results are displayed on a plaque attached to the front of the restroom. The restroom we visited at the Summer Palace, like the restroom we visited at the Temple of Heaven was 3-star, but I told S I could only allow it 2. There was a strong odor and too much liquid on the floor.
We had dinner in the red lamp district (not to be confused with the red light district – red lamps, I learned, signify restaurants) not far from the Summer Palace. Dinner was delicious. It included a dish much like hashbrowns, her brother’s favorite. Not quite as crispy, more oily. I really liked it, but S sent it back for being too salty and was satisfied when it returned too vinegary. There was also beefsteak, a dish that reminded me of camper’s stew, and a special thin garlic bread, a house specialty that is prepared at a stand in a corner of the large central dining area that looked like a plaza and had a pavilion with a table in it in the middle. S ordered a bottle of 112-proof rice wine, the local favorite, but then refused to let me drink it. Just as well. It smelled like nail-polish remover and the two sips I did take left my guts burning for the rest of the night.
posted by Tom at 11:31 PM
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