From the Amish word for a period of "running around." A time to go forth into the world, experience new things, and make mistakes. Mistakes like adding the letter "P" to the word "rumspringa." Apologies to the Amish for appropriating, and then fucking up, their religious terminology. I pray they are not offended when they see this on their fancy computers.
On Tuesday morning, we had a little time before catching the afternoon flight to Guilin, so I explored the Shanghai Urban Planning Exhibition.
It's an unrelentingly optimistic view on Shanghai's growth, which glosses over the dark side of such sprawl. But it's hard not to impressed by the sheer scale of the various projects intended to guide that growth, including revamps of the airport, pier, and transportation systems. The most impressive exhibit is the scale model of the city, which takes up an entire floor of the Exhibition. The room lights even dim every 10 minutes to simulate an evening view of Shanghai, whose intricate skyscrapers and bridges seem to glow with the ambition of its city planners.
Mom went back to rest at the hotel, while Annie and I explored the French Concession district. This was the area that the French controlled during the colonial period, which has gone through several renovations and which has arrived at a fashionable blend of modern commerce and historic architecture. We visited the Shikumen Open House, which preserves one of the distinctive houses from that period. The furnishings were a reminder how much both East and West influenced Shanghai's culture during that time.
At my friend Terry's recommendation, we visited Sun Yat-Sen's former residence, and got a glimpse of this revered figure's role in China's history.
Haagen-Dazs break! Expensive (Y60), but you can get China-fied updates of basic shakes that you can't get in the States. This was our apricot and mango shake, with rosemary!
The evening was a bit of an adventure. We set out to eat dinner at a restaurant near our hotel named Factory, which was recommended by Lonely Planet. Turns out that you cannot completely trust a four-year old tour book, because Factory no longer existed. The doorman outside the industrial-looking complex where Factory should have been assured us, however, that there was a very good restaurant on the third floor that we should try. He was right.
From the gleaming glass and fire entrance, we were concerned that we had stumbled upon some place way outside our price range. But, while several items on the menu were priced from Y400-500, we found a number of reasonably priced cold and vegetarian dishes. We managed to cobble together a very tasty meal for Y121 (approx. $20 for three people . . . not bad at all).
We made a mad dash for the last cruise along the Huangpu River, which offered amazing views of both the sparkling modernity of the Pudong district and the elegant history of the Bund.
After dropping Mom back at the hotel, my sister and I attempted to get a drink at the bar atop the tallest building in Shanghai. Alas, it closed with the entire building at 11pm, a strange practice for a bar. But we managed to snap some neat pictures of the gorgeous building. You can't tell from this profile shot, but the building is shaped like a bottle opener, with observation decks lining the top and bottom of the opener.
On Monday, we drove past the soaring residential towers in the center of Shanghai to the outskirts of the city, where we spent the morning exploring Zhujiajiao, one of the historic "water towns" in the area. That's our tour guide Sunny, with Mom and Annie.
One of the traditions is to release fish into the canal, which allows you to make a wish. Here is Mom wishing for my and my sister's health and happiness.
We stopped at the house and gardens of a former impresario in this area, which was a more compressed version of the grounds at Yuyuan Garden. It contained a beautiful horse-shaped rock from the same lake that the three stones in Yuyuan Garden.
We finished with late lunch at Jia Jiao Hong Lou, a restaurant at the entrance (not far from one of the ubiquitous KFC's that seems to have conquered the fast food imagination of the Chinese). After Sunny explained our collective food parameters (some vegetarian dishes, not too much salt or spice), the very competent waitress thought for a second, developed a game plan, and explained that she would just start sending out food that she thought we would enjoy. She did a great job. My favorite dish was salt and pepper shrimp, which was perfectly seasoned and impossibly tender under the crackle crunch of the shell.
The gluten puffs and egg with local fish was also tasty. After lunch, we were sent on our way by the owner's adorable dog.
After lunch, we drove across the river to the Bund, a stretch of historical buildings that are a remnant of Europe's historic presence in Shanghai. The restoration of the Bund was completed in March 2010, and includes a raised walking area along the water where you can view the skyscrapers in the Pudong district.
In the evening, we decided to try some of the local street food near our hotel. You couldn't beat the price (US$5 for dinner for three). Mom, however, pointed out that you could beat the cleanliness.
Next stop was the Pearl Oriental TV Tower, one of the tallest television towers in the world. The views from up top, especially from the glass bottom walkway, were stunning. The tower is in the Pudong district, the commercial heart of Shanghai across the Huangpo River from the famous Bund.
Lunch at Seagull Palace redeemed the awful breakfast at the food court. The tastiest dish was fish meatballs, which I have always had savory but which were surprisingly sweet and sour.
After being picked up from Beijing Airport, we went to dinner at a local cafe en route to the train station. It looked modern and hip, not unlike any number of late-night cafes that you could find in SGV, and was appropriately named Youth Restaurant.
The menu was impressive, with several items that you just can't order in the United States.
Both mom and I were impressed with the food itself. The nicest surprise was a dish of cold fern root noodles, which neither of us had tried before. It had the texture of soba noodles, in a delirious salty-vinegary broth with chopped chilies, scallions, and peanuts.
A couple of years ago, I started using the term "Freudian Lisp" to describe when closeted gay men say unintentionally, though revealingly, gay things. The beauty of the phrase is that it is succinct and self-explanatory: use it immediately after the phenomenon in question and everybody, including people who have never heard the term before, will know what you mean.
I have never seen the phrase in any publication or heard anyone else use the term, so I'm fairly certain that I've created something new. I love the idea that it is still possible to contribute something original to the world, something that the millions of other monkeys at their typewriters have never thought of. I sent my new term to UrbanDictionary.com -- which, true to form, did not have such an entry -- and will let you know if it gets published.
UPDATE I
Urbandictionary.com finally posted my definition! If you like the term, visit the site and give it a thumbs up.
UPDATE II
A hilarious example of a Freudian Lisper is Tobias Funke, the self-proclaimed "anal-rapist" ("analyst" + "therapist") from "Arrested Development." Watch through the last clip, when Tobias tapes himself to see why his family thinks he has an odd way with words:
This post originally began as a gratuitous plug for the juices made by Bolthouse Farms. I have always enjoyed Bolthouse juices, and have become seriously addicted in the last few weeks since learning that the local grocer carries every flavor made by Bolthouse:
But my love letter must give way to a Dear John letter. Why? Because a little internet research has revealed that Bolthouse Farms is owned by a rabidly conservative religious foundation that is big on Biblical inerrancy and the "everlasting punishment of the lost." Worse, the Bolthouse Foundation is one of the major donors to the Alliance Defense Fund, the anti-ACLU that is attempting to whittle away at the separation of church and state. And the operation is being bankrolled in part by money from unsuspecting juice-junkies like me.
Damn you, fundamentalists! Why are you so rich and tasty?!? Part of me wishes that I had never started the love letter to Bolthouse Farms, because I would have never learned about its shady underbelly. But now that I know, I cannot in good conscience continue to subsidize its agenda. So I will lovingly savor that last bottle of C-Boost (made with mangoes, cherries, and crack) in the fridge, and hope that the shakes and night sweats pass quickly.
I am house-sitting for the brothers while they are away at their annual meeting in New York this week. Much of the work came over the weekend, when I was in charge of guesthouse duties for the church group here from Friday to Sunday. Some of my responsibilities included:
Picking up mail from the post office downtown;
Folding, stocking, and ordering linens for the guesthouse:
Cleaning the dining room tables and dishes (the latter with the help of a nifty industrial dishwasher):
Taking out the compost (because we haven't yet learned to pocket mulch):
Maintaining the bookstore in good condition:
Packing and restocking the teas and coffees for sale:
Ringing the bell to announce offices and meals over the weekend:
Keeping a steady stream of coffee brewing over the weekend (this last job was the most time-consuming, as the churchies drank like fishes):
Giving an introductory orientation to the retreatants;
And, of course, closing down and locking up in the evening.
It was much more structure and responsibility than I was used to from the last seven weeks. But it felt like holy work (except when I swore after breaking a coffee mug) and a small gesture of thanks to the brothers for their kindness and hospitality.
I would be remiss not to mention all the assistance from Nancy (guesthouse director, thawer of communion biscuits), Marisa (guesthouse assistant, nurse-in-training), Luis (supercook), and Michael (weekend support, jack of all trades, soon-to-be-reader of this blog). Without their help, I might have accidentally set the house on fire.
I was a little sad, however, to miss Los Angeles Pride this weekend. A couple of times, while making coffee for a church group comprising gentlemen in their 50s and up, my mind wandered wistfully to Joan Jett, Tiffany remixes, and this:
Today was one of those days so perfect and clear that it made you glad to be alive. I decided to spend the afternoon in Montecito, Santa Barbara's sleepier, wealthier cousin to the south. I walked around the Music Academy of the West (which is celebrating its 60th anniversary this summer), stopped by Our Lady of Mount Carmel, and ended the day at the beach.
I woke up at 4:30 in the morning to take two of the brothers, Roy and Laurence, to the airport. They are flying to meet the other three brothers at West Park, where the annual conference for their order is taking place.
Because Roy and Laurence plan on staying in New York for a bit after the conference, they will not be around when I finish my retreat next Friday. So I'm grateful to have had this past weekend with them, to enjoy their company and say goodbye properly. Together we cleaned the house, watched movies, sipped through a few bottles of wine, and shared a sumptuous meal of leftovers with a couple of local friends. It was a great way to spend the weekend because, of the five brothers, I've gotten to know these two the best. Roy was my movie buddy and the person with whom I would talk about life and art. I have great affection for Roy, whose stillness and gentleness permeates down to the way he tenderly pours out communion wine. And Laurence and I ran errands for the house together every Friday morning. Besides being an accomplished astronomer, Laurence has a real passion for politics and social justice. I will miss having both of them in my lives every day.
After dropping Roy and Laurence at the airport, I decided to stay up and watch the sunrise. The sky was still dark and the moon overhead when I returned from the airport. The moon stayed visible well past dawn, despite the rapid encroachment of the sun.
At one point, you could see both sun and moon as they shared the horizon:
In the video, you can hear how quiet the house and the surrounding valley is. It reminded me of a Carrie Underwood song that I've been listening to during the drive down the mountain into town. "Wasted," if you ignore the subtext about alcoholism and domestic abuse, perfectly captures what I'm hoping for this rumpspringa year:
I don't want to spend my life jaded, waiting to wake up one day and find that I let all these years go by wasted.
I don't want to keep on a-wishin', missing the still of the morning, the color of the night I ain't spendin' no more time wasted.
Last weekend was the 21st annual I Madonnari festival at the Santa Barbara Mission, which displays beautiful chalk artwork rendered by local artists and commissioned by local businesses. Many of the works were still on display when I visited this weekend:
This last piece received my "Best in Show." Just beautiful. Step aside, Lorenzo de Medici. There's a new art patron in town. And his name is Walter Michajlenko, Oral Surgeon.
Then there's this guy:
Rather than parking at the lot like the rest of us, this dude decided to get a closer look by parking ON TOP OF several of the works! Philistine.
