My Breakfast with Mel

Meals are particularly good times for discovery and traveling, domestically or internationally. It is an event that affords many opportunities to learn about food, culture, and ourselves. Melanie and I embarked on a tour of food places in the old neighborhood near the Xintiandi subway stop the morning after my flight from Newark to Shanghai. She proposed that we have a breakfast of street food in the traditional places, where there are no menus and very few people speak English. It was a particularly sweltering morning, with high humidity and 90 degrees (F) at 9AM. Combined, our knowledge of Mandarin was limited, with my vocabulary primarily limited to two words (“hello” and “thank you”). Nevertheless, we a good attitude we ventured to the street.

Our first stop was a popular place on Jiang Road where there was an assortment of fried dough with various fillings and toppings. The fillings remained a mystery until we started eating, and sometimes remained a mystery even after that. The food, already prepared, remained surprisingly hot atop what appeared to be homemade stoves constructed of barrels. Our methodology in ordering food was to point to items that looked good and indicate, with hand gestures, how many we wanted. We picked out enough that, under normal circumstances, would have been enough for A big breakfast. The woman serving us named a price, and I was both surprised and impressed when Melanie correctly understood that the cost was 13¥ (about $1.91).

We took our fried bounty to the second adjacent storefront where there are about four or five small tables with stools. Mel wondered, given the handbook we ordered, if we were supposed to sit in the seating area. All the other people sitting there were eating congee (rice porridge). Nevertheless, it was unlikely that anyone would ask us to leave. I surmised that they thought I didn’t know what I was doing, which is completely correct.

One of the fried dumplings was filled with pork (I think) and was delicious; another I enjoyed was a fried bread, not dissimilar from naan, but not as sweet. There was not anything to drink, so after we finished we went down the street for bottle of water at a tobacco and drink shop.

Our second destination was a narrow storefront on Hefei Road, where a woman made a pancake that was like a crepe. Using a round flattop grill, similar to one used in a crêperie, the woman took batter and spread it thin across the skillet with a wooden wedge tool that appeared to be homemade. It was about the size of her fist with a handle and a thin blade. As the pancake cooked, she cracked an egg on top, spread it across, added some assorted greens and a little bit of chili sauce for heat. Before folding it over, she took some prices of, what appeared to be, fried dough, place carefully across the crepe. This gave the pancake a texture, without adding any discernible flavor.

We walked along more of the streets, exploring shops, grocery stores, and a traditional medicine shop. On some of the more remote streets, there were communal washing machines and people playing cards. Old women swept the sidewalks with long straw brooms. Most of us have this image of a quickly modernizing China, which is completely true. Yet, many would be surprised that the several lilongs continue to have communal toilets. 

Our final stop, for breakfast anyway, was a small pastry shop on Huaihai Road that served a tasty curry turnover. By this time, however, we were both full. The heat of the day was beginning to have an effect and we retired to a coffee shop for drinks and air conditioning.

Walking in Ordos

We checked into the hotel in Ordos late at night following a long day. After spending an afternoon in the desert, I was tired, hot, sweaty and my skin was oily with residual sunscreen. Not able to figure out the password to the wifi, I made the trip back to the front desk to ask for help. The elevator stopped on the sixth floor where a party was in full swing. Several young people crowded onto the elevator backing me into a corner. Four young women, recognizing me as a westerner, crowded around.  They threw one young woman with glasses in front of me and during the ride she grew increasingly comfortable leaning against me. I was not feeling my freshest, and did not relish the opportunity to have someone overly close or taking photographs, especially without a shower. Inevitably, as the door closed, the young woman’s friends began to take pictures with their smart phones.

New apartment flats in the center of Ordos

It is not uncommon for people in China to request westerners to pose for photos or to take a picture as secretly as possible. This is especially true for people with blond hair or blue eyes. The practice happens more frequently outside of Beijing and Shanghai. In Inner Mongolia, I have had many such encounters. Most of the time I am happy to oblige; but on occasion, when one is not at their best, I am less enthused about participating in the practice. I faced my encounter on the elevator with a certain amount of resignation.

In part I was surprised about the number of people in the hotel because Ordos is famously known as a “ghost city.” A city of a little over half a million people, Ordos is a remarkably small city by Chinese standards. The bus ride into the city center took us through the district that looked to be a ghost district. Many high-rise buildings were clearly empty, and awaiting tenants. The center of the city was more lively and busy.

On my early morning walk the following day, I was interested to observe the city and the ghost city phenomenon. It was a pleasant morning, but my phone warned that the weather was cloudy and “unhealthy for sensitive groups.” To be sure, there was a thin fog that hovered over the city, probably from the coal industry that has fueled the economic boom of the region.

It was shortly after 6am when I started my walk from the hotel. Despite the early hour, there were several workers assiduously sweeping the streets with long straw brooms. It was very quiet, as opposed to the previous evening, the only the loud sound was of older men clearing their throats and spitting. I was continuing to feel like an outsider. A man drove by on his moped and nearly fell off as he continued to stare at me while driving.

I stopped for a few minutes at a park near the main police station. I began thinking about had little wildlife I had seen in Inner Mongolia.  The most common bird, by far, was sparrows and I remembered the fate of these birds during the Great Leap Forward in the late 1950s. In an attempt to modernize the country, from 1958 to 1962, the government called on citizens to attack the “four pests”: rats, flies, mosquitoes and sparrows. The sparrows were targeted because they ate grains especially rice. So many sparrows were killed it resulted in an ecological disaster because the birds ate a large number of insects as well.  

In the park there was a bridge that crossed a small creek on bridges that highlighted a pride in the community. A group of women, who were exercising in the park, formed a double circle. Most wore white pants, pink tops, and white gloves while stepping in place to do exercises coordinated to Chinese pop music. As I sat on a bench and surreptitiously watched the exercise, I noticed a woman in the distance doing the same exercises some fifty yards away. I made up stories in my mind that she might have been disowned from the group because of some indiscreet gossip or other communal infraction.  Meanwhile, some men and teenagers played basketball and badminton closer to the building.

Women (and a few men) exercising 

As I walked back to the hotel, to make sure I had breakfast before the bus left, I decided that Ordos had a façade of development that did not benefit everyone in the city yet. Lavish hotels and restaurants along the main thoroughfares hid more modest apartments in the center of most blocks. It is an area poised for a great future, or precariously clung to the hope that foreign visitors and deeper investments might bring prosperity for all. I found it difficult to believe that many international visitors would stay at the Meet You Hotel, which to me sounded more like a place for a liaison than an accommodation for tourists. My tour booked rooms at a very nice high-rise hotel, but just two blocks away was a small dwelling that used a blanket as a door with a hot plate and kettle just outside.

Walking in the Mongolian Grasslands

After spending a day in the Xilamuren Grassland, I awoke early to a contemplative walk before most others were stirring. The day before had been so busy that it is difficult to comprehend where I was exactly: the grasslands of Inner Mongolia. It was both exotic and normal. Not understanding the language and the barrage of different cultural symbols and traditions meant that I was fully aware of a very different place. Yet, there a sense of a normality as well.

Horses on the road

Shortly after leaving our camping site and began walking on the road, I happened upon seventeen horses, including several foals, meandering down the road toward me. Although most of the horses were on the opposite side of the road, I had some trepidation. I started to slow my pace, anticipating being in close contact with unfamiliar and legendarily semi-wild horses, a man on a dirt bike appears from nowhere and began to usher the horse with whistles, voice commands, and intimidation into an adjacent field. He had a pole, about the size of a long broomstick, that caught the horses on the back of their knees and cajoled the most obstinate into the prescribed behavior. The herd were soon in the field across the road; the man on the dirt bike disappeared, after he returned from the direction he came, without ever making eye contact.

Xilamuren Temple in the early morning mist

As I turned back for my return trip, the sun had risen higher in the sky and I cast a long shadow on the road. More local people have begun their diurnal activities. I saw my first car of the day, followed by two more, during the one-kilometer walk back to Mongolian Holy Land camp. In many ways, it is a walk like any other. People, everywhere, had routines. The landscape and fauna appear similar, but there are differences: the water bugs are larger than they would be in North America; the grass a little finer. As I entered the camp I meet two young Chinese women walking out. They were singing along to a song on their smart phone. I exchanged Ni-hao with one while to other surreptitiously snapped a picture of me.

Meeting A Chinese Police Officer

At a roadside rest stop on the Jingzang Highway, between Hohhot and Baotao, a police officer stood guard near the entrance to the toilets. As I approached the entrance with several Chinese travelers, it was clear the police officer had singled me out with a smile. I returned his smile and said “Ni-hao.” The officer straightened a little and gave me a salute as I walked by. 

On a Train from Vienna to Bratislava

In an otherwise quiet coach, a woman wearing a floral-patterned sundress, spoke with some vigor into her phone. Speaking in German, she was speaking too fast for me to understand the actual conversation, but the tone of her voice indicated she was agitated and exasperated. She held her long brown hair in one hand as she kept rapidly repeating phrases, two or three times over, indicating that she was emphasizing a point to her argument. Perhaps there was a tinge of embarrassment because she drew attention to herself on a train that was only about half full. It was Sunday, maybe Saturday night did not go well. I amused myself by remembering the opening scene of Before Sunrise, the seminal travel film, in which Jesse witnesses and argument on a train bound for Vienna and meets (and falls in love with) Céline after she explains the argument. In my version, the story playing out in reverse: the train was traveling away from Vienna and there were no romantic connections being made as a result of the argument.

When the train arrived in Bratislava, I wondered if the woman in the sundress was “escaping” for the day, running away if you will. What little I understood from the conversation, she wanted something from the person on the other end of the phone.  When we emerged into the antiquated, communist-era train station, I saw her, several feet in front of me, take out her phone and snap a picture of the sign across the exit that read: “Welcome to Slovakia.”

Tempelhofer Feld

Tempelhof was one of the oldest and most important airports in the world. Opened in 1923, it was particularly famous as being the focal point of the Berlin Airlift of 1948-49, when the Soviet Union denied Western Allies access to West Berlin in one of the first major crises of the Cold War. Cargo airplanes from several different countries landed at Tempelhof to provide provisions to the beleaguered city. Soon airmen, led by Gail Halvorsen began dropping pieces of candy attached to small parachute to the children of Berlin in an attempt to raise morale. Halvorsen would earn the name “Uncle Wiggly Wings” and the “Candy Bomber” because of his efforts. The airport remained a major transportation hub throughout the Cold War period, but closed in 2008. After its closure, and a campaign to retain the airport, it was decided that the airport and its runways should be used as a park. Today, in addition to a couple of “Grillplatz” (A BBQ area), the runways are used for human activities while most of the grass areas are used by wildlife, including several ground-nesting bird species.

I made the trip to Tempelhofer on the Pentecost holiday. Many people were taking advantage of the park despite the weather being overcast, cool and windy. I decided, as a novelty, to walk the entire length of the runway thinking about what a different perspective it was traveling the large concrete path by foot rather than by airplane. As I walked, there was a myriad of family stories going on around me on runway 27A: An older brother, or cousin, in his late teens is patiently teaching a girl of about eight how to ride a skateboard. A quarter of a mile further, I saw a father on rollerblades teaching his young daughter how to ride a bike. Several people were flying kites of various shapes and sizes.

There were several young men, joined by a small number of young women, drinking beer in the park. The sight of two or three men carrying a case or two of beer into a public park would probably we worrying to many Americans. Indeed, the amount of beer being consumed by a few people was staggering, and it is common to see men, with their backs to the crowds, urinating into the meadow where, I suspect, some of those thousands of nesting birds receive a not-so-nice surprise. Given the number of people who use the park, especially in the grill area, the amount of debris and trash is remarkable low. A similar park in the US would generate more litter. That is not to say that Tempelhofer is pristine, there are the occasional broken beer bottles on the runway, but it is remarkably cleaner than one would expect. 

Overheard at the Edinburgh Airport

The four women behind me in the security line at Edinburgh airport were discussing having their carry-on luggage inspected. One woman commented, “I make sure I have all my liquids, and anything else they might be concerned about, out of my bag because I don't want them going through me knickers.” One of her companions retorted, “I just have new ones that I have taken out of the package yet, so they won’t.”

A Conversation about Life and Death in Ancient Egypt

At a special exhibit on ancient Egyptian burials at the National Museum of Scotland, I was looking at the sarcophagus of the priest Nehemsumut, circa 840-815 BC. There was a group of grade one children, on a class outing, in the same area. I was pressed by the assignment sheets they were using as a lesson examining burial practices and using impressive vocabulary words. A little boy, with blond hair, wearing his school uniform blue jumper, engaged me in an earnest conversation:

Boy: That's a mummy.

Me: Yes. It is very cool, isn't it?

Boy: You know the mummy in there is still alive!

Me: Are you sure?

Boy: Yes. He’s really alive!

Boy’s friend: (with analytical skepticism) I think he’s dead.

Me: (nodding, earnestly) I think he is dead too. 

Kindness

Standing atop Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh a few weeks ago, I met Tam and Jan. The three of us struck up a conversation after Tam was enthusiastically asking everyone who was their favorite NFL team. He was an American football enthusiast and there were plenty of Americans at the summit that morning. I am not sure how Jan got into this conversation since he was leading a group of Dutch high school students to Edinburgh, but this is the nature of unexpected encounters. Tam was a life-long resident of Edinburgh and, clearly, very proud of his city. He said he had not been to the top of Arthur’s Seat since he was a boy and that he promised himself that once he retired he would again walk up to the top.

Tam was musing about being on the top of Arthur’s seat and all the different people, from all over the world were there sharing in the moment, taking photographs, meeting each other, and having a good time. It made him very proud that people would come to Edinburgh and share in this experience. It was very different from what people saw on the news about people. Jan and I agreed that wherever we traveled people tended to be nice, friendly and considerate. I commented that it was a very few people who made it difficult for the rest of us.

It seems to be universal that most people are kind to travelers. The kindness and generosity of people has been in great evidence on the trip this year. In Leigh Fermor’s account of walking across Europe in the 1930s, he found people were incredibly kind and generous. For example, a gift of eggs from a young girl, offers of a place to stay, food, parties, tours, and encouragement of all types were a theme in his books. The most intriguing events, however, were the times when he would misplace, leave behind, or lose his journal. When this would happen people invariably kept the notebooks where he recorded his thoughts, musings, ideas, and the languages he was trying to learn. In one case, a lost journal reappeared thirty years later. During the turbulent times that would come after his journey across Europe, a world war occurred, the onset of communist regimes made communication difficult, and deaths, births and marriages all occurred. Life happened, ‘twas ever thus.

On this trip, I have had similar stories, although nothing as dramatic as Leigh Fermor. At Newark Airport, before leaving on my flight to Europe, I had dinner at Chinese dumpling restaurant. Toward the end of my dinner I was interrupted by a student’s inquiry. Thirty minutes into the flight I looked for my notebook to continue making notes. I could not find it and had a sinking feeling that I left it behind in the airport restaurant. At the first opportunity, I looked in my rucksack in the overhead bin – no luck. Obviously, that early in the trip, the journal did not have many entries, but I had made several research notes, notations and plans. Certainly, a loss; but not a disaster.

Fate intervened. Two and a half hours into the flight, as we neared St. Johns, Newfoundland, the pilot announced that one of the guidance systems for the airplane was not was working. Because regulations require a backup when flying across the Atlantic, we would have to fly back to Newark for a replacement. Although an inconvenience, it was serendipitous in terms of my notebook. I returned to the restaurant to be told by a server it was closing; I explained that I was looking for my journal. A young woman came forward and said she wondered if someone would return for it. I handed her a small reward, which she initially refused, but accepted it after I said the least I could do was to buy her a drink or a cup of coffee.

Four weeks later, I was taking a bus to Mousa to see the famous broch. At the small history and information point near the dock, I reached for my notebook to jot down some interesting points. After a few minutes of searching my pockets and backpack, I came to the realization that I must have left it on the bus after I had been jotting down observations and places I would like to visit during the trip. On the boat, I was stewing about my forgetfulness, especially considering my adventures at Newark. This time, even though it was my second notebook of the trip, the loss of notes would be more substantial. I was giving myself a pep talk, see the broch, take notes on your phone, when we arrived at the island of Mousa, and I will inquire about the notebook later. The son, and assistant captain, came out on deck and said, “Those of you who rode the bus down today, someone left a pad of paper and pen…” I confessed it was me. “Good,” he said. I’ll give you the bus driver’s name and number and you can decide where to meet him. I had a wonderful time on Mousa, occasionally concerned that I might have written something that would have been taken out of context. When the excursion returned to the mainland I called Robbie, the bus driver. He asked where I was staying and he told me to meet him at a bus stop near my hotel at about a quarter to six. He warned that he was on the return trip from the airport in Sumburgh, and that he may be a few minutes late, depending on how many people were getting on the bus at the airport. Nevertheless, the number 6 bus arrived right on time. Even as the bus was rolling to a stop, Robbie was reaching under his seat to retrieve my notebook. I handed him a £10 note and said I wanted to him to have a pint or a cup of coffee on me. He smiled, thanked me, and said, “it was no bother.”