High and low in Shanghai

Shanghai's old city has narrow streets lined with buildings that, heavy in the shoulders, are falling forward. Yet early in the morning, these streets are vibrantly transformed into a bazaar of merchants who use concrete as their display tables and mouths as their advertisement. Everything is sold: scorpions, nylons, moped parts, 'Titanic' posters, chicken chunks, sandals. This is a flea market for the disposed. Yet people shop seriously, picking food or a fan, or needed bicycle parts.

By eight o'clock, police aggressively urge the merchants to go. Cars come. At nine, there is no trace of the street markets.

In the French Concession pet markets are open all day. In these markets, it is loud. Fish are sold, turles, lizards, but mostly birds. The cages are stacked high, frantic screeching and fluttering wings.

Only two blocks from one pet market is Shanghai's Art Museum. Chinese landscapes are the highlight. This museum is cutting-edge. The long canvases are hung in elaborate glass display cases that remain dark until a viewer steps in front of them. The entire history of Chinese landscape painting is covered.

Quick Tips:

Let cab drivers fight. The cab I was in crashed. People drive fast in the city, and it is no secret that it is crowded. Accidents seem inevitable. What is surprising is that cab drivers will get out, scream at each other, refuse to take the blame. So don't be alarmed if this happens.

I don't know a word of the language. In restaurants I would hand waiters a piece of paper with the character for fish on it, and hope for the best. Twice I received live fish. A large plate was placed before me, and instantly shellfish and crayfish went scurrying over the table; I was to impale them with sticks and boil them myself. Once I got the hang of it, it proved to be actually fun and tasty.

The historic sites in the city tend to be rather thin. I brought to the country a large interest in the nation's history -- Shanghai didn't seem to offer any authentic documentation of it. Communist meeting houses, spots of colonial occupation/struggle, and even Sun Yat Sen's home feel like tourist traps without much substance.

Best Way To Get Around:

Shanghai is not like Beijing. One will see a lot simply by walking. Although the train station is a bit of a hike from the Bund, the walk does lead one through diverse neighborhoods. Walk often in the city. If you don't like large treks, then pick a small neighborhood and stroll. There are so many unique shops, odd and beautiful buildings on a small scale, and so many people sitting along the road working odd jobs or just ready to make a comment to any strange person walking by. And I, with blond hair, often proved to be a strange person. People did stare at me, but were generally very friendly. If they could speak English, they wanted to know where I was from, what I, as an American, think of China, and if I think the Chicago Bulls ever again will be any good without Michael Jordan.

The Pujiang Hotel is an imposing edifice with a grand lobby, mahogany walls, and towering ceilings, amounting to the most dramatic hostel I have ever stayed in.

There are many ways to first approach a city, be it in the narcotic stillness of early morning, the shade of evening, or the indifferent bustle of mid-day business. Shanghai was like a dog attack. I arrived by train just after evening and was absolutely swamped by bright neon lights, a sea of taxi drivers, and people begging me to stay in their hotels. Fortunately, I had two essential pieces of information: a warning that train station cabs charge 3x the normal amount and the address of the Pujiang hotel. A short (honest) cab ride through downtown and amid the dense traffic along the Bund brought me to the entrance to the hotel.

The European architecture of the lobby and hallways, cavernous rooms, and long, wide stairways seem to be in a world altogether foreign to Shanghai. Dorm rooms accommodate about 10 beds and it is a long walk to the shower (which is often cold). Yet the reprieve of the quiet interior of this hotel make such problems appear minor.

Travelling without knowledge of the language is exhausting. With all foreign travel comes mild sickness, eye strain from trying to decipher characters, sore feet, and a desire to escape curious locals. The Pujiang hotel provides this escape. Tucked away in a small alley that follows a bend in the river, the building stands across the street from the former home of the Russian consulate. The warm yellow rooms are big enough that one isn't bothered by sharing an afternoon in the room with a few strangers, and it remains quiet enough to read a book undisturbed. At night, the only sounds that make their way through the thick walls are the tiny car horns along the Bund and the occasional fog horn from a barge on the river. In the morning, the discordant music accompanying those practicing tai-chi is the perfect alarm clock.

'China's Number One Street' is a pageantry of materialism. More festive than any Broadway, brighter than any Times Square, funner than any Sunset Strip, this Miracle Mile is a strip of fast food chains, malls, flashy billboards, and heavy spending. Economic expansion seems to already have had its Westernizing effect on Nanjing Road; one will find amid the flags and lights and traffic all the familiar advertisements for Coke and Pepsi, fast food chains, perfume and makeup companies, clothing designers and electronic products. This is a concentrated spending extravaganza unlike anything the United States or any Western Eupropean capital has been able to unleash. Consumerism reigns, sustaining a furious pace for six, seven long blocks. Over-crowding is experienced in the extreme -- one gets the sense at street level that there is indeed too much of everything. Drowning in color, over-stimulated by the smells, fresh fruit drinks and candy, Whoppers, confused by labrynthian mall entrances and myriad mini vendors, the fifteen minute walk can feel like a day long trek for senses. The best way to get a good view of the commotion is to climb on top of one of the few overpasses. Above is the best perspective to have, to see down the long stretch of global marketing success, to realize that in this feast of high-spending there is probably nothing you, no, there is nothing anyone needs for sale on the street. Yet the solid attraction of American brand names, the plastic luster of franchise marketing comes clear in such density. In the distance, where the street ends, through the haze of moped and bus exhaust, stands the Bund, and then Huangpu River, and the rocketship-like Oriental Pearl TV Tower. There is no other street like this in Shanghai, in fact, there is no other street like this in China. And only a block or two away in Shanghai one will be back to the narrow lanes with tiny restaurants lined with murky fish tanks and ramshackle shops selling fried bread and boiled eggs.