I interrupt some patrons of this dining establishment to ask them where the sites are. “Uh, duibuqi, uh, qing wen, uh.....,” and then I point to my Chinese writing and show them my map. A couple inside is helpful and I am able to locate three of the four sites. Outside, I ask two girls in their 20s for similar help, hoping I can verify the answers I received inside. Or, better yet, maybe they’ll they want to show the lost American around their metropolis.
This hope is in vain, but they do enjoy laughing at me and pointing down a street when I show them one of the sites I’m looking for. I walk down this street, but the only thing I see is a couple cabs. “Ahhh, o.k., I dig it.” I get in the cab and greet the cab driver, “Nihao!” and point to the words for Nanjing Holocaust Museum. He seems to know where it is, but doesn’t want to take me there. At the time, I thought it was because it was so close to where we were, but I would later discover the real reason (renovation).
I point to my second option, Ming Xiao Ling (MXL), and he agrees to take me there. Now, at this point, all I know about MXL is that it’s a famous ancient tomb. There are some well-known, ornate mausoleums there. Beyond that, I know nothing. There could be a building with artifacts. I could be getting sold. It could be a temple. Regardless, my true instincts tell me what I’m about to see is tranquil, surreal.
The driver drops me in front of a large, pristine park called Zhongshan. I buy the 80 kuai ($11) entrance ticket and proceed through a gate. I walk a bit and am greeted by a fork in the road and a unique set of signs (like a lot of the stuff in this story, it’s in the slideshow). The right part of the fork is a pathway (“The Sacred Path”) guided by trees and unique stone animal sculptures. I walk down the pathway and take a few pictures of the sculptures. Then, I notice three Chinese girls walking about 50 yards ahead of me.
The roughly paved trail slices through shallow trees and cuts along a pond. There’s a small patio alongside the pond. Here, I envision Mr. Miyagi practicing his karate every morning at sunrise while Daniel-sen paints the fence; it’s serene and peaceful, an accurate depiction of my mindset at the moment, and so I ask the girls to take my picture. Then, they ask a logical question and we exchange names. It is my pleasure to be in the company of Michelle, Iris, and Isabel.
They are from Qingdao, the city where the famous national beer of China is brewed (about halfway between Beijing and Shanghai along China’s east coast). They work in a hotel and met about a year ago. Their ten-day holiday is taking them to various parts of China and they were in Shanghai a few days prior.
We explore the vast expanse that encompasses the MXL tomb for about an hour before making our way to a “bus/train.” Picture a tramcar disguised like a train and you’ll get an idea for what we’re dealing with here. The thing has wheels and an exhaust pipe, but it’s decorated to be a train. It is celebrating Halloween 365 days a year without the candy and shuttles people around to the various areas of Zhongshan Park, which I’m beginning to realize is huge.
On “trainy”, we chat it up with two older couples from San Francisco. They were born in China and spent their younger days here. Now, they are taking a three-week trip back to the old country. One of their children lives in Chicago. It’s comforting to meet them and talk about familiar cities. As it turns out, we would cross paths several times later in the day. On our last encounter, we take a picture together and exchange e-mail addresses to pretend we will keep in touch.
After the ten-minute trip, we find ourselves in a small museum which houses wax sculptures of China’s past leaders. It’s a solemn building and the statues are striking in their decorated detail. Names of soldiers who died in a war are inscribed along the walls. It’s overwhelming as there are some 30,000 names listed everywhere.
After the museum, we make our way to a series of small temples. Before entering, we light incense and make a wish. This is a common ritual and the incense is left to burn in a small encasement while the candles that light the incense drip almost endlessly. As a result, melted wax cakes the bed of the metal holder.
Inside, we are greeted by several large golden Buddha statues. Again, everything is peaceful and several monks are around, some meditating, some observing their foreign visitors, and mostly keeping to themselves.
We climb stairs upon stairs to reach a tower (Linggu Pagoda) that has been within eye-shot since we left “trainy.” There are eight floors and we climb more stairs to reach the top. It reminds me of climbing the stairs at St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague. The effort steals your lungs but it is worthwhile as there is beautiful scenery waiting from the heights.
Linggu Pagoda places itself about ¾ of the way up a mountain and the eighth floor overlooks the entire park. The view is gripping. The trees are caught in a one-month time capsule as they retain the height of their fall colors. I gaze down and admire their mesmerizing tops. They almost appear like liquid, like you could jump into them and go swimming. We take several pictures and I try to leave a slice of myself in the moment.
But, like a slice of tiramisu, all good things must come to an end and so we make our way back down the stairs. If climbing them was tiring, then descending them is dizzying. We wander around the bottom of the tower before the girls start planning our next jaunt.
They are looking for another sight. I’m not sure what it is and, like the rest of the day, I don’t really care. So far, I’ve had a great time following them around. Large portions of our day have consisted of them chatting in their hometown dialect while I gaze around, looking to take cool pictures. I’m an obedient lapdog and they are glad to have me. And I am more than happy to be in the company of three endearing females who just bought a pack of crackers and can make sense of the crazy speaking and writing all around.
Some confusion strikes as they look for the next sight on their list. These girls have an outline and they remind me of the girls I traveled with in Berlin in September. They too had an agenda and nothing was going to come between them and seeing cool, historic stuff. After a few double-takes down a gravel path, we enter an open-air pavilion with a grass seating area and lifted stage.
There are fountains separating the seating area from the stage and it is timed with pop music. As Eric Clapton or Whitney Houston pick up the pace, the streams from the fountains shoot higher and higher into the air. The scene on the lawn looks like something out of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. There are white pigeons all around the grass and I underestimate what’s about to happen next. The girls begin dispensing the crackers and feeding time is on.
The birds flock to the girls in one dive. Before I know it, they’re surrounded and I’m caught in a quick flashback - twelve years old, down the Jersey shore, watching seagulls soar down the beach to get to the dinner we just left them at the shoreline. I snap out of it and realize that the birds are actually landing on Iris and Michelle now, trying to get at the crackers.
This doesn’t bother the girls at all; in fact, they are amused by it. I take several pictures and partake in the action myself, feeding the birds from my hand while a few land on my arms. For the moment, I feel like Ace Ventura, “Come to me, jungle friends!”
The birds hang out with us for ten minutes or so and I notice that their loyalty is directly proportional to our supply of crackers. When our bag is empty, they move on and so do we. Twilight is now conquering the sky and the sobering thought of the day’s end invades my mind.
“The Birds” incident stands as a fitting end to our tour of the grounds. It’s about 5:00 now and my train leaves at 8:00. The girls invite me to dinner with them and it takes us about an hour on the bus before we find our way into downtown Nanjing. We mosey along a strip of shops and restaurants, tasting some dessert cakes. One of these cakes is green with a mushy texture that reminds me of chocolate chip cookie dough, but tastes more like a gingerbread cookie.
Isabel’s new mission takes us to one particular restaurant that serves a certain type of food you can only find in Nanjing. So, basically, I’m about to experience what any China-native would go through the first time they tried a cheese steak in Philly. I think about this, chuckle, and tell the girls to order me Nanjing’s version of the “wiz-without.”
My legs are weary and it feels good to relax in the restaurant’s chair. After a few minutes, we’re dining on some interesting, exotic foods coupled with the non-exotic and comforting vegetable fried-rice. I can feel myself winding down. My bowl has glass noodles and some dark meat in it. I chow down on the noodles as my fellow travelers anxiously wait for me to try the dark stuff. I eat some of it and they ask, “So, what do you think?”
I get it. I just ate something strange. “Ah, it was ok, not my favorite. Why? What was it?”
“It is blood and liver of a duck.”
This hope is in vain, but they do enjoy laughing at me and pointing down a street when I show them one of the sites I’m looking for. I walk down this street, but the only thing I see is a couple cabs. “Ahhh, o.k., I dig it.” I get in the cab and greet the cab driver, “Nihao!” and point to the words for Nanjing Holocaust Museum. He seems to know where it is, but doesn’t want to take me there. At the time, I thought it was because it was so close to where we were, but I would later discover the real reason (renovation).
I point to my second option, Ming Xiao Ling (MXL), and he agrees to take me there. Now, at this point, all I know about MXL is that it’s a famous ancient tomb. There are some well-known, ornate mausoleums there. Beyond that, I know nothing. There could be a building with artifacts. I could be getting sold. It could be a temple. Regardless, my true instincts tell me what I’m about to see is tranquil, surreal.
The driver drops me in front of a large, pristine park called Zhongshan. I buy the 80 kuai ($11) entrance ticket and proceed through a gate. I walk a bit and am greeted by a fork in the road and a unique set of signs (like a lot of the stuff in this story, it’s in the slideshow). The right part of the fork is a pathway (“The Sacred Path”) guided by trees and unique stone animal sculptures. I walk down the pathway and take a few pictures of the sculptures. Then, I notice three Chinese girls walking about 50 yards ahead of me.
The roughly paved trail slices through shallow trees and cuts along a pond. There’s a small patio alongside the pond. Here, I envision Mr. Miyagi practicing his karate every morning at sunrise while Daniel-sen paints the fence; it’s serene and peaceful, an accurate depiction of my mindset at the moment, and so I ask the girls to take my picture. Then, they ask a logical question and we exchange names. It is my pleasure to be in the company of Michelle, Iris, and Isabel.
They are from Qingdao, the city where the famous national beer of China is brewed (about halfway between Beijing and Shanghai along China’s east coast). They work in a hotel and met about a year ago. Their ten-day holiday is taking them to various parts of China and they were in Shanghai a few days prior.
We explore the vast expanse that encompasses the MXL tomb for about an hour before making our way to a “bus/train.” Picture a tramcar disguised like a train and you’ll get an idea for what we’re dealing with here. The thing has wheels and an exhaust pipe, but it’s decorated to be a train. It is celebrating Halloween 365 days a year without the candy and shuttles people around to the various areas of Zhongshan Park, which I’m beginning to realize is huge.
On “trainy”, we chat it up with two older couples from San Francisco. They were born in China and spent their younger days here. Now, they are taking a three-week trip back to the old country. One of their children lives in Chicago. It’s comforting to meet them and talk about familiar cities. As it turns out, we would cross paths several times later in the day. On our last encounter, we take a picture together and exchange e-mail addresses to pretend we will keep in touch.
After the ten-minute trip, we find ourselves in a small museum which houses wax sculptures of China’s past leaders. It’s a solemn building and the statues are striking in their decorated detail. Names of soldiers who died in a war are inscribed along the walls. It’s overwhelming as there are some 30,000 names listed everywhere.
After the museum, we make our way to a series of small temples. Before entering, we light incense and make a wish. This is a common ritual and the incense is left to burn in a small encasement while the candles that light the incense drip almost endlessly. As a result, melted wax cakes the bed of the metal holder.
Inside, we are greeted by several large golden Buddha statues. Again, everything is peaceful and several monks are around, some meditating, some observing their foreign visitors, and mostly keeping to themselves.
We climb stairs upon stairs to reach a tower (Linggu Pagoda) that has been within eye-shot since we left “trainy.” There are eight floors and we climb more stairs to reach the top. It reminds me of climbing the stairs at St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague. The effort steals your lungs but it is worthwhile as there is beautiful scenery waiting from the heights.
Linggu Pagoda places itself about ¾ of the way up a mountain and the eighth floor overlooks the entire park. The view is gripping. The trees are caught in a one-month time capsule as they retain the height of their fall colors. I gaze down and admire their mesmerizing tops. They almost appear like liquid, like you could jump into them and go swimming. We take several pictures and I try to leave a slice of myself in the moment.
But, like a slice of tiramisu, all good things must come to an end and so we make our way back down the stairs. If climbing them was tiring, then descending them is dizzying. We wander around the bottom of the tower before the girls start planning our next jaunt.
They are looking for another sight. I’m not sure what it is and, like the rest of the day, I don’t really care. So far, I’ve had a great time following them around. Large portions of our day have consisted of them chatting in their hometown dialect while I gaze around, looking to take cool pictures. I’m an obedient lapdog and they are glad to have me. And I am more than happy to be in the company of three endearing females who just bought a pack of crackers and can make sense of the crazy speaking and writing all around.
Some confusion strikes as they look for the next sight on their list. These girls have an outline and they remind me of the girls I traveled with in Berlin in September. They too had an agenda and nothing was going to come between them and seeing cool, historic stuff. After a few double-takes down a gravel path, we enter an open-air pavilion with a grass seating area and lifted stage.
There are fountains separating the seating area from the stage and it is timed with pop music. As Eric Clapton or Whitney Houston pick up the pace, the streams from the fountains shoot higher and higher into the air. The scene on the lawn looks like something out of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. There are white pigeons all around the grass and I underestimate what’s about to happen next. The girls begin dispensing the crackers and feeding time is on.
The birds flock to the girls in one dive. Before I know it, they’re surrounded and I’m caught in a quick flashback - twelve years old, down the Jersey shore, watching seagulls soar down the beach to get to the dinner we just left them at the shoreline. I snap out of it and realize that the birds are actually landing on Iris and Michelle now, trying to get at the crackers.
This doesn’t bother the girls at all; in fact, they are amused by it. I take several pictures and partake in the action myself, feeding the birds from my hand while a few land on my arms. For the moment, I feel like Ace Ventura, “Come to me, jungle friends!”
The birds hang out with us for ten minutes or so and I notice that their loyalty is directly proportional to our supply of crackers. When our bag is empty, they move on and so do we. Twilight is now conquering the sky and the sobering thought of the day’s end invades my mind.
“The Birds” incident stands as a fitting end to our tour of the grounds. It’s about 5:00 now and my train leaves at 8:00. The girls invite me to dinner with them and it takes us about an hour on the bus before we find our way into downtown Nanjing. We mosey along a strip of shops and restaurants, tasting some dessert cakes. One of these cakes is green with a mushy texture that reminds me of chocolate chip cookie dough, but tastes more like a gingerbread cookie.
Isabel’s new mission takes us to one particular restaurant that serves a certain type of food you can only find in Nanjing. So, basically, I’m about to experience what any China-native would go through the first time they tried a cheese steak in Philly. I think about this, chuckle, and tell the girls to order me Nanjing’s version of the “wiz-without.”
My legs are weary and it feels good to relax in the restaurant’s chair. After a few minutes, we’re dining on some interesting, exotic foods coupled with the non-exotic and comforting vegetable fried-rice. I can feel myself winding down. My bowl has glass noodles and some dark meat in it. I chow down on the noodles as my fellow travelers anxiously wait for me to try the dark stuff. I eat some of it and they ask, “So, what do you think?”
I get it. I just ate something strange. “Ah, it was ok, not my favorite. Why? What was it?”
“It is blood and liver of a duck.”
It’s an appropriate end to the day - a dish unlike any other for Eight Hours in Nanjing unlike any other.
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4 comments:
Chris....I'm probably being prejudiced here, but Michelle, Iris, and Isabel were very lucky to spend the day with you. I love this story.
Love, mom xo
Chris.I agree with your mom...I bet the girls felt lucky too..to meet such a friendly American.....Take care..LOve Aunt Eileen
Chris,
I am truly at a loss with my limited ability to communicate in such elegant speech as you. Writing may truly be your calling. I love reading about your adventures and feel as if I am there with you as you so eloquently rely your experiences. I look forward to the next entry like reading a good book that you can't put down. Keep the stories coming and enjoy your adventures as much as I do!
Take care...Paley (Sorority)
Have you thought about writing a book. Maybe just the stories from your travels. You have an amazing way with words. Your stories are great and I always look forward to the next one. Keep them coming. Catch you later. B.T.W - The Bears are terrible without us now!
-Jason
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