A Day In Xi’an

Wild Goose Pagoda

Legend has it that the monk said, “Kill the goose! Build a pagoda!” And hence, the Wild Goose Pagoda came into existence. Not sure if that’s actually true, because I can’t imagine a monk ordering something killed, but…

We paid our admission and entered the complex. We walked past many smaller buildings, offices, bookstores, snack stand. Though they were utilized for everyday activities, they still possessed the beauty of thousands of years ago. The incredibly detailed wood carvings. The sloped tiled roofs, gently cascading down, down, down. The immaculately tiled floors, some tiles grey marble, some pink marble, some plain, others with blossoming flowers in the center.

We walked past all of these buildings, heading straight to the back of the complex. In the rear most buildings were dark wooden reliefs, carved intricately, oiled and shining, telling the history of Monk Yijing. Toni (our lovely tour guide with the boy’s name) was surprised (and I think somewhat appalled) that we didn’t know who this monk was. Monk Yijing walked to India (from China…) in 671. Once in India, he obtained and translated Buddhist scriptures. In the wooden reliefs, Monk Yijing is portrayed as almost the same height as the king, indicating his high social position, and much deserved respect.

I stood at the base of the 7 story pagoda and looked up. Each layer, just slightly smaller than the one before it, culminating in a point! at the top. The grey of the bricks such a contrast to the perfectly clear, not a cloud anywhere, cornflower blue sky. We paid an additional admission to walk, no elevators here, to the top of the pagoda. More than once dad and I hit our heads as we walked up the stairs. On each level, the staircase became not only narrower, but shorter as we ascended. We stopped at a couple of levels on the way up, to look out each of the four directions: north, south, east, west. Unfortunately, like Beijing, most of what we could see in the distance was smog. That thick, heavy, lazy blanket coating the city.

At the very top we looked out the small window, overlooking the complex. The bells were tolling. There, as tiny as dolls, a never-ending line of monks, in alternating brown, beige, and marigold robes, walked, single file, towards the main hall.

We walked back down the seven dizzying flights of stairs. Magnetically, we were drawn towards the chanting. As we rounded the corner, pots of incense burned hotly, blazing, the heat distorting the view beyond. The main hall was packed with monks and disciples, listening, learning. Outside, more were lined up, shoes off, on mats, listening, tolerating the tourists interrupting their service. We observed, then quietly walked down the path leading towards the exit.

I asked Dad to take a picture of Mom and me with the pagoda in the background. As we were posing, two beehived Chinese ladies, dressed in purple, with the hottest pink lipstick I’ve ever seen, approached us. They took our hands and held them, positioning themselves beside us. I’m not sure if we were joining their picture, or they were joining ours, but you could hear the “click, click, click” of so many cameras as we stood there. After we had smiled to each direction, they took our hands and squeezed them, as you would do to a long lost friend. We smiled, we bowed, we were off.

Biking On The City Wall

We made our way through intolerable traffic. Sitting. Sitting. Moving inches. Sitting. The heat. The smog. I could feel my back getting damper and damper. I tried to lean forward. It didn’t help.

After what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only 45 minutes, we were across town, at the entrance to the walled portion of the city. Xi’an was once the ancient capital of China. A wall, about 14 kilometers in length, protected it. We climbed the steps, each one a struggle in the intense heat. Finally reaching the top, we were greeted by a wide road of sorts, the top of the wall. Hardly anyone in sight. It was strange, not to see crowds, bustling up against one another, beckoning you into their stores, selling their wares. We enjoyed the solitude for a moment. I looked to our right.

Bicycles!

Not high tech, mountain-road bike combinations. Good, old fashioned, Chinese bicycles. A line of them, all pink! We *have* to ride the bikes. We *must* ride the bikes. Mom uttered a gentle protest, “I haven’t ridden a bicycle, in, Lord knows, 50 years.” Um. Mom. It doesn’t matter. Hence, that saying, it’s just like riding a bike. You never forget.

Maybe that saying isn’t really true.

But we did get on bikes, and we rode, just the four of us, meeting virtually no one in our path. There really wasn’t much of a view from the city wall. A lot of laundry drying. A lot of construction. And a lot of smog. But the feeling of movement. Of flying. Of soaring. On these magical pink bicycles. These wonderful, functional, no gear bicycles.

I pedaled as fast as I could, circling in front of Mom, still unsteady, and Dad, offering limited assistance beside her. Still pedaling, I pulled out my camera and turned it on. Action shot! Smile! I hollered, still pedaling. Dad laughed. Mom reprimanded.

For an hour, we pedaled along the wall, just enjoying. Not seeing any sights in particular. Not learning any history. Just being.

It was one of my favorite moments of our trip.

Laosunjia

It was rather convoluted, how it came to pass. My father and mother went to church with a couple, of whom the husband’s brother had married a Chinese woman, her niece went to school in Xi’an, she wouldn’t be available, but her friend…

Anyway, we had a lovely tour guide, Toni. As explained by the niece, “She is a very easy-going girl and very friendly, but with a boy’s name.” The first evening together we went to Laosunjia, a famous restaurant in Xi’an. We sat down at a large table, warned by the waitress that we would have to share if others came in. Of course we didn’t mind. The waitress handed us, well, something that could best be described as hockey pucks made of yeast and flour. A heavy, glutinous, sort of thing. Mom, dad, and I stared at Toni; we had no idea what to do. She explained we should tear the bread like substance into tiny bits and place it in our bowls. We tore. And tore. And tore. My fingers hurt from ripping the bread apart.

The waitress came by. And sneered. Evidently our efforts just weren’t good enough.

We picked up the tiny pieces and began tearing more. When none of us could tear any more, our bowls filled with mere crumbs of bread, the waitress whisked the bowls away. We then sat and stared at each other, nothing to occupy our hands.

Only minutes later, the waitress returned. She thumped a bowl down in front of each of us. Steaming, too hot to touch, a bowl of broth. A bowl of thick, noodle filled, meat enhanced, piping hot broth. The small bread pieces had plumped into dumplings of a sort.

We each picked up our set of chopsticks and began. It was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before. A familiar spice, though I can’t name it, greeted my tongue. Somewhat sweet. And the flavor of the meat. Oh! It melted in my mouth. Literally. The shreds of meat just melted. No chewing required. The noodles, the fine, glass noodles, soaking up the flavor of the meat, so delicious.

We ate in silence.

At one point, three men, heavy set, were sat at our table. This was obviously their first time at the restaurant as well. They tore their bread into large pieces, then called the waitress. She didn’t even give them the courtesy of a scoff. I snickered to myself, glad that they didn’t scoff only at foreigners, but at the locals as well. They continued ripping and tearing, ripping and tearing. A second call. She still wouldn’t accept their bread. They ordered beers and kept tearing.

After our soup, we picked at the extra plates we had ordered. Mushrooms, boiled and flavored. Jujubes, those sweet date-like fruits, drizzled in nectar. Everything, so incredibly good. Could it get any better than this?

Soldiers

Let’s say you were an emperor. An emperor who did many bad, bad things during your reign. So, you wanted to protect yourself. After you were dead, that is. At first you had the idea to bury, still alive, thousands of soldiers, near your tomb, to protect you, from evil spirits. But, some advisor or another talked you out of that somewhat ridiculous idea. The folly. Instead, you decided to create, from clay, replicas of your army.

Not exact replicas, mind you. A little bit larger than life. Just for good measure. So, each soldier posed. Had their clay alter-ego created. For fourteen years this painstaking process took place.

Imagine a football field. No, three football fields.

Now, imagine all three football fields filled with aforementioned clay soldiers.

I gasped. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. The sheer grandeur of it. Perfectly at attention, standing straight and tall, rows, upon rows, upon rows, almost 6000 clay soldiers. Each just a bit different from the one next to him. Each, standing guard, so that Emperor Qin Shihuang would not have unexpected visits from evil spirits.

I stood in amazement, literally unable to move. I zoomed in with my camera, not to take a picture, but to get a better look. Each one bore a human expression. Each one, just a little different. Each one, spear in hand, ready to protect their emperor.

Our guide explained that work on this project had halted. Modern scientists had no way to protect what they were unearthing. When originally discovered, by a farmer digging a well, the terra cotta soldiers were brightly colored – blues, greens, reds – emanating from their existence. After a mere three days, yes, only three days, the colors disappeared. Now, we have only clay. Red, brown, dull clay to view. Spectacular, but nothing compared to the original findings.

I wondered. Who was this Emperor? Who was this man, who for 14 years had slaves work on his tomb? Who ordered the construction of the Great Wall?

Evidently, there are many more treasures yet to be discovered. The original soldiers stand almost 2 miles from the emperor’s tomb. No one will excavate closer, for fear of not being able to preserve what is found. I’ve never seen anything like it….

That’s Some Sightseeing!

Our first stop of the day was the Banpo museum, an archeological dig of an old matriarchal village. The dig itself was pretty cool. In an abstract sort of way. Because it really was just dirt. Just dirt, with a few holes in the ground, with cardboard signs surmising what might have been. But to imagine back thousands of years ago, how people, real people, just like you and me (but in China, and in a society run by women) lived, that was the cool part.

Then there was the reconstructed village, an outdoor museum of sorts – the sign read “Welcome back 6000 years – Come Visitor, Come!” As I was entering, I noticed two mounds to my right and thought, Gee, those look like breasts turned sideways. I stepped back, and sure enough, it was a large, headless woman, maybe an 18 foot waist, lying on her side, the doorway right at her vagina. Didn’t expect to be walking into a vagina on this trip…

Bird

The restaurant next to our hotel offered “Engles menu” and outdoor seating. What a bargain. We sat down at a wobbly, white plastic table and dad pushed the menu towards me. I quickly glanced at the four pages of entrees, immediately disqualifying any with beef (mom doesn’t eat it anymore), organs, or unidentifiable animal parts. I offered some options: Sweet and Sour Pork, Bird Braised in Paper, Kung Pao Chicken,… Both mom and dad liked the sound of the first two. I called the waitress over. I pointed to our choices as I said them out loud, also ordering water for mom and dad, a TsingTao beer for me. Our food arrived surprisingly quickly. We began to pick at the dishes placed in front of us, both very tasty. We watched as tour groups walked past us, eyeing the dishes on our table. “This chicken is really good,” Dad said. Mom nodded in agreement.

Earlier, while studying the menu, I had noticed young men on bicycles pulling to a stop just to the right of our table, maybe 10 feet away. On the back of their bicycles were wire cages, filled with birds, perhaps pigeons. Or other nondescript grey birds. The young men usually chatted with an older gentleman for a few minutes, who then took the cages, disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with empty cages. This strange phenomenon continued as we ate our dinner. I was puzzled. I looked behind me. Where was the old man taking the cages? What were so many birds needed for? Birds. Birds. I looked down at the dish in front of us. We had all assumed it was chicken. I saw the menu listing in my mind’s eye. “Bird Braised in Paper.” I looked behind me. It seemed the old man was entering the same building that housed our restaurant, possibly a service entrance.

The connection was clear. It was just a little too fresh for me. I watched mom and dad enjoying the Braised Bird, decided not to say anything, and popped another piece of pork (I think) into my mouth.

To Market, To Market

My dad, as wonderful as he is, has absolutely no interest in shopping. Normally, I don’t either. But put me in a traditional market and I’m in heaven. The pungent odors, the narrow alleys, the chattering, growing louder and louder, the bantering and bargaining – I’m mesmerized, absolutely hypnotized.

While in Beijing, mom and I wanted to visit both the pearl and silk markets. Mr. Li, our helpful driver who had taken us to The Great Wall and the Summer Palace, volunteered to take us to the markets (at a price, of course). Thinking strategically, we decided to go to the Pearl Market first, since pearls were obviously smaller and lighter to carry, as we had a full day of shopping ahead of us. We arrived at 8:45 am, only to learn the Pearl Market didn’t open its doors until 9:30. Mr. Li told us not to worry, he would take us to the Silk Market, we could shop there, then return to the Pearl Market after it opened. On the map, the Silk Market appeared to be within walking distance. When I suggested to Mr. Li we walk, he scoffed, then drove us 45 minutes across town. He parked the car, led mom and me to the entrance of the market, then let us loose, telling us to take our time, he’d be in the car (must be a male thing). Mom and I wandered down the first alley, greeted by overzealous merchants grabbing our arms, pulling us to their booths. Booths of cashmere sweaters, pashminas, souvenirs, shoes, clothes, handbags, but no silk. I turned to mom, Maybe the silk is farther down, down another alley. Let’s keep going. We oohed and aahed over rugs, sequined handbags, delicate glass bottles painted from the inside, but no silk.

“Hey, lady, you want shoes-sa? I got your shoes-sa. Big shoes-sa, right here.” I was startled. I looked over to this tiny woman with the booming voice, and that was all the confirmation she needed. She pulled me over. “Which you like-a? Which-a?” I smiled. No, I really don’t think you have my size. “Yes-sa. I see you feet. You big feet. I have you size-sa.” I looked at mom. She shrugged. Was I really about to put myself through another humiliating retail experience? Yes, I was.

I pointed to a pair of delicate black mules. Those. Size 9 1/2. She disappeared behind a cloth, crouched down, rustle, rustle, rustle, and appeared with a box. I hesitantly accepted it. Could this really be true? Could I really find a pair of shoes in Asia? After 8 months of being ridiculed for my size, could I really be on the brink of purchasing something? Feeling like Cinderella, I slipped my foot into the right shoe. Oh. Too small. Thanks anyway. “No, lady. Wait-ta. Don’t go.” She once again crouched, parted the curtain, and disappeared. And came back with another box. Sure enough. They fit. Oh, glorious day. A new pair of shoes. Feminine shoes. Beautiful, black, dainty heeled, going out shoes. How much? “500 yuan.” I laughed out loud. No way. Thanks, though. “Hey, lady. Look-a. Gucci. Real. Real.” I looked at her. These are not real Gucci. They’re beautiful shoes, but they’re not Gucci. And they are *not* worth 500 yuan. “Okay, how much?” 50 yuan. “What? Lady, big shoes. Worth-a more than that.” 50. “400. Good price, just for you. Good morning price.” 50. “If afternoon, I charge you more. Now, good price. 300.” 50. “Look. Rainy day price. 200. Good price. You buy.” She tried to put the shoes in my hand. 50. “Let’s make deal. I give, you give. 100. Okay? Good price, lady.” I thought for a moment. 100 really wasn’t a bad price, just a little over $10, for a pair of shoes that made me feel elegant once again. That made me feel like I was an accepted part of the retail community, not an amazon for whom nothing fit. I was trying to think of the Chinese word for yes, thank you, when I heard. “Last price. 80. For you. Only you. Don’t you tell.” I smiled. I handed her the crumbled bills with a Xie Xie and I was off.

When mom and I returned to the car, we asked Mr. Li where the silk was. He laughed. “Only named silk market. Old days. Big market. Now, silk in big building right beside Pearl Market.” Of course. We should have known.

Beijing Opera

The sign in our hotel lobby touted the glories of the Beijing Opera. Not to be missed! A spectacle beyond belief! Now playing, right here!

I looked up the Beijing Opera in Dad’s Lonely Planet. Sure enough, it was a highly recommended attraction. There were three places to see the Opera in Beijing, two locales were traditional Opera houses, the theatre at our hotel was listed as a “sterile option.” I tried to find the other opera houses on the map. They weren’t there. I checked another map. Still couldn’t find them. I reported my research to my parents; we decided to take the “sterile” option, since we most definitely could find our way there and back.

It was indeed sterile. A theater that lacked charm, lacked any sense of design that was so evident everywhere else in China. Three platforms of “tea service” seating, tables with hard back chairs and a pot of tea in the center of the table. Behind the “tea service” section were rows upon rows of theater seating, reminiscent of a high school auditorium. We settled into our hard back chairs as comfortably as possible and the house lights dimmed. From a parting in the heavier than life blood red velvet curtains came a tall Chinese gentleman, as stiff as the chairs we were sitting in. In the most unusually accented English, he welcomed us to the Beijing Opera. He explained how in this form of opera movements were minimized, simplicity ruled. Therefore, an actor holding a horse whip was riding a horse, even though the horse wasn’t there. This seemed fairly obvious, but an explanation is always appreciated. If an actor walked around the stage, this symbolized traveling a great distance, across town, across a country, across the world. The erect Chinese gentleman bid us a good time, and with that, the first story began.

The first actor came out, garbed in the most fantastic, most elaborate costume. Yards and yards of silk surrounded him of the richest, deepest black. Swaths of white belted him, cradled his sword. Embroidery, mostly in gold, mostly of unreal animals, covered his tunic. We watched him dance, twirl, flip, retreat, and sing a little. By the end of the performance, two other actors had joined him, faces covered in white powder, eyes rimmed in black kohl, then surrounded by a deep red which seemed to personify evil. As far as I could tell, this was the story:

A general in the Chinese army was exiled (don’t know why). One of his subordinates wanted to take the rap for him. His subordinate dresses up as the general, then sets out to find the general. He stops at an inn, where the real general is staying, but dressed as someone else. The Innkeeper is really the real general’s bodyguard. During the night, the Innkeeper/bodyguard sneaks into the general/subordinate’s room, to execute him (because he’s obviously an imposter). They fight in the darkness for a very long time. The real general enters with a candle, recognizes both men, conducts introductions, and everyone laughs. Hahahahahahaha.

The second story was even more confusing. A nymph meets a scholar. She is smitten. She sends a message to him, via one of her nymphs in waiting, that they are congenial and will be married. With this message she sends a pearl as a symbol of her everlasting love. All the people in heaven got angry, because evidently a union between a nymph and a mortal is against the rules. Someone from heaven sent an army to stop this union, and possibly kill the nymph. Or at least teach her a lesson. Little did they know. This nymph kicked ass. She single handedly defended herself from a huge army of spear holding, flag waving heavenly soldiers. She gracefully deflected spears aimed at her, kicking some with her dainty, bound toes, twirling, deflecting others with her own spear, knock, knock, pirouetting, laughing the entire time. Bottom line – she defeated heaven’s army, she married the scholar, she got what she wanted.

And that was the end. I was sad. I wanted to see more of the out of this world color combinations. I wanted to see more of the jumping over each other, acrobating over tables, leaping over flying flags. I wanted to be scared by the intricate, overly done make up, reminding me of spirits only present before in my nightmares. Alas, the house lights shone, the people exited. The night was done.

The Summer Palace

After our trip to the Great Wall, Mr. Li escorted us to The Summer Palace, a “must see” for anyone visiting Beijing, according to him. It was beautiful. And expansive. Building upon building upon building, all built around a marvelous lake. We began walking around the lake, but quickly realized we wouldn’t be able to circumvent the entire body of water in the four hours we had allotted for the palace. We crossed the 17 Arch Bridge, so named because of the 17 arches that gracefully led us from the mainland to a small island in the center of the lake.

The Summer Palace was ordered built by Empress Dowager Cixi, who, from all descriptions, seemed like a woman who did whatever the hell she wanted. The funds for the Summer Palace were originally earmarked for the Chinese navy. She felt a palace for herself was more important. As a concession, however, she did build a stone boat, never navigable, and placed it as a monument to the navy at her grand palace. Also at the palace was a residence built especially for the Emperor, a nice gesture, I suppose, except that she banished him there under house arrest for long periods at a time. When Mom and I visited the Forbidden City/Imperial Palace, we learned that our gal Cixi also drowned the concubine of the Emperor who preceded her. To look at her photos, she didn’t seem evil, but I sure wouldn’t want to cross her.

As we walked through the grounds of The Summer Palace, beauty surrounded us. The majestic lake, the weeping willows lining the shore, boughs gracefully swaying in the light breeze; the buildings themselves, the faded blues, greens, and deep reds of the structures; the granite dragons, perched on larger than life pearls, ready to defend their territory from any of the evil spirits lurking. Even though it was incredibly crowded on this Sunday afternoon, there wasn’t the animosity that often permeates large crowds trying to see the same thing at the same time. Families strolled through the complex, stooped grandmothers, ambling slowly along, young mothers holding babies with bottomless pants, couples, posing for self timed photos along the lakeside. Everyone smiling, enjoying the cool breezes the lake provided on this sweltering day.

The Great Wall

Mr. Li, our driver for the day, picked us up at the hotel. We were scheduled to visit The Great Wall at Badaling. The mother of all tourist attractions. The reconstructed fortress that had kept enemies at bay for hundreds of years. The one man made structure visible from outer space. We were all very excited. We expected this excursion to be the highlight of our time in Beijing.

As we crept through the clogged Beijing streets, Mr. Li predicted Badaling would be very crowded today, as it was Sunday. “How about visiting another part of the wall? Maybe Mutianyu?” Dad, riding shotgun, discussed this possibility with Mr. Li. As soon as Mr. Li mentioned crowds and cable cars, Dad expressed his displeasure. “We really were looking to visit somewhere with less tourists. More off the beaten track.” Mr. Li nodded. “Hmmm. I see.” Personally, I wondered if Mr. Li understood these expressions, but I continued to let Dad do the talking.

Mr. Li cleared his throat. “How about the Yellow Flower section of The Great Wall?” Mom and I flipped through the Lonely Planet resting between us. We found no Yellow Flower. Dad encouraged him to tell us more. “Well, not developed. Just like hundreds of years ago.” Dad turned to face Mom and me, eyebrows raised. We stared back at him, maddeningly indecisive. None of us wanted to take responsibility for choosing a potentially bad spot for the highlight of our trip. “It’s up to you,” we finally said, “you choose.” “Okay, Mr. Li, let’s try that Yellow Flower section.”

We continued through Beijing until we came upon a huge traffic circle. As we approached our venue, we were met by a large sign blocking the way. Mr. Li stopped the car, got out, yelled to someone on the side of the road, then returned. We looped around the traffic circle once again, avoided the large sign, and continued down the blocked road. Dad asked Mr. Li what the sign said. He replied, “Road closed.” The three of us gave each other glances then shrugged. We drove a couple of kilometers down a chestnut tree lined dirt road before encountering another road block. This time a big rig was trying to turn and had jack knifed, blocking the road. This did not deter Mr. Li in the least. He simply beeped, drove off the side of the road, around the cab of the truck, and back onto the road. Shortly thereafter, we arrived at a bridge that was blocked. Bulldozers were in the road, as well as construction trucks. We would not be driving across the bridge. This obstacle caused Mr. Li to actually stop the car. “Oh. Hmmm….” we heard. Then, “Ahhh….” He slowly drove to one side of the bridge, down into the dry riverbed, then back up the opposite bank. Bridge? Who needs a stinkin’ bridge? At this point I felt like I was auditioning for the Chinese version of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. We could go anywhere in this car, this little red Volkswagen sedan.

After almost 2 hours of driving, Mr. Li pulled off the road, stopping in front of a souvenir booth and a large blue road sign, on it in white block letters in both Chinese and English, “THIS SEKTION OF GREAT WALL NOT DEVELOPD. CLIMBING FOBIDEN.” Mr. Li motioned for us to follow him, right past the warning. We passed vendors hawking their wares, then we were on a thin dam, crossing a lake. He pointed. There, snaking over the mountain, was the Great Wall. Not the Great Wall of postcard fame. The Wall, in its original form, dating back from thousands of years. We started along a dirt path surrounding the lake, then followed a switchback trail up the mountain until there we were. At the base of The Wall.

We started up it, using both hands and feet to ascend. We stopped every few feet – to rest, to wipe the sweat from our foreheads, and to gaze at the ever expanding view. Mountains, in every direction we looked. We continued up among the partial rubble, former fortress. At the first battlement, a toothless old man sitting perfectly erect, cross legged, bamboo hat askew, greeted us. As we climbed over the huge last step, he led us toward his mat of wares – “jade” bracelets, postcards, knick knacks. We smiled, shook our heads, and enjoyed the cool breezes. He followed us around a bit, a few paces behind us, his hands firmly clasped behind his back, against his navy blue tunic. Our utterances probably sounded as foreign to him as his did to us.

We continued up to the next battlement, avoiding the tall weeds growing along the path. We were behind a group of about 20 older Chinese tourists, the women in practical slacks and colorful polyester blouses, the men in baggy bermuda shorts and undershirts. All were chattering loudly, yelling to one another, snapping every combination of photos possible. One man sang loudly. He belted out the words to what seemed to be a Chinese folk song. Every so often, one of his female counterparts would join him, trilling notes shrill enough to shatter glass. At the second battlement there were more souvenir salesmen, who we again avoided with smiles and shakes of our hands. I could tell my mom was tired but I wanted to climb higher – just one more battlement. She reluctantly agreed.

We continued. Small rocks slid down the mountain as we climbed higher. At the third battlement there was a make shift ladder, sticks connected by twisted wire, to the top. Dad and I climbed up. The view was spectacular, even though limited by haze. The Wall continued a bit higher, then snaked around the mountain, down, then back up. An amazing feat simply because of its length. Dad and I pondered the actual effectiveness of this wall. It wasn’t that high. Did it really prevent enemies from entering China?

Dad posed for a picture, then I did. A group of Chinese tourists ascended the ladder. One volunteered to take our picture together. He then asked to take a picture, of us, with his camera. I shrugged. Didn’t really understand his request, but agreed.

We met Mom in the battlement below where she, too, had been approached by many Chinese tourists to be in pictures. We started down the mountain, back to the car. In my tennis shoes, I could move much quicker than Mom in her sandals. “I’ll meet you at the car,” I hollered, and sprinted off.

At the second battlement I passed a group of French tourists. They saw my “Be The Reds!” t-shirt and began whispering, in English. “Zhee looks American.” “What eees it?” “I dun’t know. Maybe a new shlogan.” “Theeer flag is red, white, and buh-looo.” “Maybe it meeenz beee the red, white, and buh-loo…” I laughed to myself. Silly French. Don’t you watch soccer? I would have told them if they had only asked….

As I continued down the path, I passed a young Chinese man. “Nice to meet you,” he began. I smiled. “American?” he pondered. Yes. “From where?” he continued. San Francisco. “Ohhhh… Picture? With you?” Well. Um. Okay. His friend appeared. He snapped a shot of the two of us. The the friend wanted a picture of him and me together. The another friend appeared and he wanted a picture taken with me as well. As I was posing, thinking how ridiculous this was, we don’t even know each others’ names, my parents caught up to me on the path. At the end of the photo shoot, smiles and “Good-byes” were exchanged between all. My father teased me, “I don’t know if that small car is big enough for your expanded ego.” I grinned and continued down the path.

We stopped only to get a picture in front of the “CLIMBING FOBIDEN” sign before venturing off to our next destination – The Summer Palace.

Baby In The Forbidden City

We bought our tickets and entered through Zhongshan Park. We wandered through the shade of bamboo and passed by perfectly manicured flower beds. We entered the massive gates of the Forbidden City and noticed most people were walking towards us, not in the same direction we were. I checked my watch. 4:45 pm. The museums closed at 5:00 pm. Why don’t we just walk around, even if we can’t enter the museums? The worst they can do is kick us out, I suggested. We began walking across the enormous bricked plaza, flanked by monstrous gates. I heard a very confident, slightly British lilting voice by my side. “Hello, there.” I looked down. There, at my side, barely reaching my waist, was an adorable ragamuffin. She wasn’t striking in a traditional sense, but in her simplicity. Her baby fine black hair was twisted into a bun, several wisps framing her face.

“How are you?” she began. I’m fine, thank you, and you? I replied. “Oh, very well, thank you. Would you like to look at a postcard?” and she displayed a variety of cheap, faded postcards. I smiled. No, thanks. She looked at me with serious eyes. “The Forbidden City is closed, you know.” She stretched out her spindly arm. On it was an oversized, cheap, purple plastic watch, moving daisies indicating the time. “See, now, it is almost 5:00. The ticket office, just there, closes at 4:00. Come tomorrow, between 8:00 and 4:00 to buy your tickets.” I stared at her. Her English was perfect. Oh. Thank you. “So, now, since you can’t visit the Forbidden City today, would you like to buy a postcard?” I parted my lips to utter a “No, thanks,” but before a sound escaped she continued. “Just take a look. Just one look. Right here, ma’am.”

As a seasoned traveller, I like to think I’ve perfected my “no, thank you” response accompanied by a smile. But she was so persistent. The words wouldn’t come. Oh, okay. Just one look. Even as the words left my mouth, I couldn’t believe it.

She held out the first package, views of The Imperial Palace, the official name of The Forbidden City. What are these? I asked, expecting to get a little more history about the city which was forbidden to us at that point. She eyed me quizzically. Okay, the question was vague. I knew the said objects were postcards. I wanted more information about the pictures *on* the postcards – she had been such a font of information thus far. With somewhat of a sarcastic tone, she responded, “Don’t you know how to speak English?” This time I was puzzled. Um. Yes. With a quick flip of her wrist she opened the envelope which housed the ancient postcards. She pointed. “Then read.” I saw a poor translation of information about the Palace. Before I could even begin reading, she continued at a rapid pace. “Forbidden City. You must see. Also Great Wall. And, here, the Summer Palace.” With each place she named, another pack of postcards magically appeared. “Good price. For you, lady, good price. You must see. Here.”

I had been looking down at her for the past several minutes while this transpired. I noticed many shoes surrounding us. Oh, god, I thought, Now I’m done for. All the other vendors are waiting to pounce. I looked up. The other shoes belonged not to vendors, but to Chinese tourists. At least twenty-five people encircled us. They were staring, some smiling, as this little girl worked me. I *did* need postcards. Might as well buy them here. Okay. 1 pack. How much? She grinned. “Good deal for you. Two packs, 30 yuan. Plus one pack free.” She spoke directly to me, ignoring the group around us. I scoffed. That’s too much. She looked me up and down. “Okay, okay. 25 yuan, very good price for you.” I knew it was still too high a price, but I was uncomfortable attracting so much attention from the crowd. I sighed. Okay. I started to reach into my bag. At that point, she grabbed my arm, gave me a very serious look, and said, “Not here.” She ushered me a few feet away.

The crowd ignored her yearning for privacy and followed us, matching each of our small steps with theirs. I pulled out three ten notes. The little ragamuffin handed them to an older woman on a bicycle, who rifled through her bag until a five note was found. Meanwhile, my small friend did not stop talking. “Maybe 1 more pack of postcards?” No! I replied, This really is plenty… “Would you like me to take a picture of you? All three of you?” She motioned to my parents, standing agape, innocent bystanders to this spectacle. I don’t believe in my entire life they have ever seen someone render me speechless, unsettled. They were enjoying the performance.

Simply by raising her arm, not a word spoken, my little friend parted the crowd and positioned me in between my mother and father with the skill of a wedding photographer. She stepped back, counting. She mouthed: one, two, three, four. She peered through the camera lens and took another step back. She clicked the shutter, then quickly handed the camera back to us. She stretched her tiny arm out, showing us the cheap watch. “Don’t forget. Tomorrow, tickets are on sale between 8 and 4. You really must see.” At this point my mother leaned over her. “What is your name?” she asked the small salesgirl. The little girl faced the three of us confidently, blinked as if *everyone* knew her name, and said, “Why, Baby.” The three of us stared at each other with bemused smiles on our faces, then looked down to continue our inquisition. Alas, Baby was gone.