Wayne here. Twenty years ago when I was here in Beijing, the country was in the midst of social and political upheaval. It culminated in the Tiananmen Sq masacre which today isn’t discussed, nor taught, nor acknowledged. You have to be at least in your mid thirties for it to register. For these locals, it appears to be a sad chapter, but they’ve moved on.
Now it’s about racing to be like the west. It’s about making money. No secret here. Unless you talk to a Communist cadre.
I’m surprised how open the English speaking locals are. Things are so different.
Far less spitting, far less smoking (tho still a problem if eating in public places), more posh, more modern, more cars (By the way, contrary to what one might expect of a sea of Chinese drivers, they are no more kamikaze than in other developing countries)。 Also helps that I’m not staying in $5 dives.
Beijing is so huge. The greater area is the size of Belgium. Two blocks on a map is 2 km. I’ve taken more public transpo in the last few weeks than in the last 20 yrs combined. Trish says the ever efficient subway which offers videos and electronic maps, sardine you more than when she was in New York for 5 years. We are exhausted from walking. Our feet ache. Quads and calves are guitar strings, and a decent cup of coffee can be found, but of course its a trek.
Must also say, after European/UK beers, its pee-water here, even the Tsingtao which is a German recipe.
Trish has done well. Her health and stamina are mostly holding up. She is a joy to travel with. Her enthusiasm is a propellant. The silk dress she scored likely had an elixir effect. It’s shopping heaven. High end, knock offs, silks, electronics, antique reprods,… whatever. If we didn’t have another 30 stops, we’d load up.
We’re staying a traditional hutong setting. The Mongols laid out a system of narrow winding alleyways and warrens fronted by high walls, massive doors to courtyards of the nobility, storefronts, and homes to the common folk. In Canada we’d call these dark ghettos. Most of these have been bulldozed for soulless apartment blocks and neon shopping. But its a slice of life that’s as honest as Atlantic Canadian hospitality and as real and unpretentious as your grandma’s chicken soup.
Old men huddle around Chinese chess boards, laundry hangs out, one room businesses double as homes, public phone businesses serve whole segments of the community and smiles come honestly.
It’s gritty and grimy compared to the space-age looking new hotels, and most westerners wouldn’t feel very comfortable here. But we’ve survived the street eats and the road anarchy of the bikes zipping in and out.
Within this locality of Beijing, we are staying in a traditional courtyard-style residence。 Seven rooms huddled around a courtyard,each with a high back wall to the rest of the ‘village’.
Bill (not real name) is our host/owner.He is originally from 5 hours south and though he has rarely returned to his ancestral home, he is treated like royalty when he does. He also lived in Sydney for 2 years and is as easy going and non-chalant as they come, and refreshingly honest about life. I told him he’s a bad commie but a good man. Like others, he will show surprising candor and express fear and respect of the government. One night we joined him and his staff (teen girls from further south as well) in dumpling making (yes Trish got in on it, too), then we danced (yes I really did ) and he flung open the ‘bar’ and we sucked back brews and the local screech, aka ‘Mongolian King’, more like fermented hockey equipment. Joining us were the Kamloops odd couple–Frank,a Spanish Canadian full of spontaneous with and humour, and his bud Darcy, who resembles a Nam vet with a few pieces of lead still in him. New top mates we now have.
Among our top 5 to see was the Temple of Heaven–where the Son of Heaven, aka Emperor would pray for rain, a son, a flaming hot new concubine—-whatever. It’s richly restored and splendid in its celestial colouring of blue and gold.
