ChinaBlog Day 62

I have to invent a new word for last night. Awesorrible. It is something so wonderful and so awful that it ends up feeling just average. Similar to Dragonball Z, if you've ever watched it. No? Well, anyway, last night my old choir, the Los Angeles Children's Chorus (LACC) participated in a performance of Carmina Burana at the brand new Beijing National Performing Arts Center near Tienanmen Square in the center of the city. And I wanted to attend. No big deal, right? Take a shower, catch a cab, buy a ticket, come home. Like riding a bike.
--On an interesting side note, Beijing has recorded more rain this summer than in the past 20. Most of it has been man-made, and begins at precisely 7pm every Friday night. Man-made, you ask? Of course. The Chinese government, in readying for the Olympics, has been directly seeding the clouds with silver iodide delivered via rusty old Communist-era jalopy rockets. You can hear them flying overhead shortly before a downpour shouting "Thars gold in them thar hills!" or whatever jalopys say. Anyway it's a good way to get rid of some old ordinance and help green-up Beijing's 1.3 million new Olympic trees at the same time. My only problem is with the timing. Why Friday night??
--The performance started at 7:30 on the button. The flier said it was a two-part affair, with Carmina Burana joining an interpretive performance by one of China's premier transsexual ballet dancers. And by transsexual I mean man becoming woman, not man wearing tutu. She's quite famous here.
--In order to make the 7:30 show with enough time to purchase tickets beforehand, I planned to arrive at 7, and thus leave my apartment/catch a cab at 6. My driver was a young, personable guy, and he took great pains to show me all the most well-blocked and agonizingly slow shortcuts he knew through the city. By 7 we had barely made it out of my neighborhood. At 7:30 we were stuck on the expressway inching along carlength by carlength. I hoped beyond hope that the flier said 7:30 because the performance actually started at 8. By this time I was rather frantic and ready to scream at my young, personable cab driver, who at that moment was having a young, personable chat on his cell phone with some other young, personable Chinese person. I can still see the imprints of my nails on my palm. At 7:55 we finally turned onto the street that the Performing Arts Center is on, and zoomed up to a staggeringly halted mass of tiny vehicles six lanes across. No one was moving. Even worse, people were getting out of their cars to see what was the matter. Even worse than that, the old rusty rockets had successfully delivered their payloads, and it was beginning to bucket down in golf-ball sized drops. Pretty soon we could barely see the front of the car, let alone what the holdup was, because there was more water in the air than air. The streets began to flood. The clock ticked over to 8. I threw up in my mouth. And finally, FINALLY the cars hinted toward evaporating from in front of us.
--The cab driver dropped me off with a young, personable wave amidst the densest torrent I'd seen that night. My umbrella creaked and buckled under the weight of water not simply falling, but being shot out of the sky at a 45 degree angle. I set my tiny, cheap little shelter against the worst of it and sloshed 50 or so yards to a set of large glass doors. The building is the shape of a single droplet of water sitting on a flat surface. A big round blob. Locals call it 'the butt' because it has a crack of windows going up the front side. But that's beside the point. By the time I made it to the bank of doors I might as well have been walking through a swimming pool from the knees down. My waterproof shoes were doing an admirable job of containing all the liquid pouring into them from around my ankles.
--A series of guards stood resolutely between me and the safety of 'butt's' warm interior. "NO" they said to me with their hands and faces and uniforms as I huddled toward the opening. "WHY NOT?" I said with my sopping hand gestures. "GO AROUND TO THE FRONT" their official miming told me. "FINE. JUST SEE IF I WILL THEN!" I gestured through the torrent. The walk around crackside took its toll. By the time I made it down to the identical bank of glass doors outfitted with identical guards, my umbrella was beginning to come apart at the seams, several of its ribs were bent and rusting, and my pants had slid to my knees under the weight of excess water. Despite my appearance I approached the new set of guards with aplomb. It was approximately 8:30. My watch wasn't working anymore, so I had to use the sun and stars to suss that bit out. A big sign behind the glass said BOX OFFICE enticingly. With my gaze affixed 20 yards past the doors, I ran smack into the be-medaled hat of a very perplexed uniformed teenager. I had forgotten about, and probably dismissed as irrelevant, the uniforms on this side of the building, because I knew it was the correct side, and assumed that I had full permission to enter. Not so. They roundly refused my entry. "TOO LATE!" they forcefully gestured. "GO AWAY!" Unfortunately for them, they did not know how arduous had been my journey from Wang Jing. I picked up a nearby feral ferret (of which there are many in the city) and threw it at them. In the screaming confusion I slipped past unnoticed, and sprinted toward the safety of BOX OFFICE.
--Behind the counter I witnessed a heart-wrenching scene. Three women were putting jackets on over their uniforms while hastily gathering Things into purses. Oh no. They're closed. I reached out a sopping hand and tapped the most English-speakingy one on her shoulderpad. "PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZE?" Long pauses, whispered discussions, angry reprovals, encouraging glances, and, finally, "OK. One last ticket. Ok. That will be 380 Yuan. Cash." I jumped my fist into the air. It was sort of like how 80's tv shows always end, but without the freeze frame. I hastily plunged my hand into the pool of water in my pocket around my knees and salvaged my wallet. Pulling it open, I found to my indescribable horror exactly (and not a Jiao more) 340 Yuan. Oh. Crap. I couldn't believe it. At all. What. Do. I. Do. Now.
--There are some abilities that you have to be born with. If you aren't, you can practice, take lessons, read about it, and generally become somewhat decent. But you can never be truly great without the natural gift. The ability to draw is one example. Perhaps cooking is another. My gift is looking staggeringly pathetic. Heart-stoppingly, bone-chillingly, gasp-inducingly downtrodden. Standing there dripping like an icicle in the desert, clutching my crumpled and useless umbrella, shoes flooded with water, pants around my ankles, I have to say I might have been in the greatest form of my life. Like the saddest sap in Miserableville I slowly slopped my Yuan onto the counter and began to cry. The woman was helpless in my grasp. She gave me the most pitying look anyone can give, reached into her purse, and pulled out her own 40 Yuan to add to mine. Then she slid a ticket over to me like Mother Theresa kissing a leper, and I silently shuffled my way into the performance hall just in time for the end of intermission.
--I still didn't quite know which part of the program I had missed, but to my utter delight when the curtain rose for the second half there stood the 200 requisite men women and children ready to belt out one of the most powerful classical pieces ever created. Seeing the singers on stage, full orchestra and 20 or so spectacularly-costumed dancers before them was such an overwhelming relief after hours and hours of worry and misery and anguish and uncertainty and patheticness that I began to weep. I made it. The orchestra punched their first notes, the choir 'O FORTUNA'ed loudly, and I sank into my chair, bathing in contentment for the first time in a long, horrible evening.
--It was a grand performance. The confusing woman dancer choreographed acrobatic, truly breathtaking movements to fit perfectly the mood of each piece. LACC rocked, as usual, and the choir and orchestra, from Stanford University, did an adequate job as well. It was certainly the most interesting performance of Carmina Burana that I have or probably ever will see.
--At 9:30 the curtain finally descended in front of the performers after three bowing sessions for a standing ovation that seemed to go on forever. I knew I was broke, and I also knew I needed to grab a cab home, so my first order of business was a trip to some unspecified ATM hopefully somewhat near the performance hall. A quick scan of the street told me that I was in the dreaded business/government district. The blocks here are horrific, mostly completely devoid of storefronts for miles on end. It's a little like being at the airport with a craving for Chicken Tikki Masala. You might be able to find it, but it'll take a lot of walking and no one will be able to direct you. Eventually, however, I found a welcoming white and red '24' lit up over the typical glass cube that signals an all night ATM. With great enthusiasm I wrenched open the door to find a single old Chinese man with a trowel kneeling on the floor and staring at me like I just walked in on him grooming his dog. 'What's this guy doing here?' we both said with our faces. There was no ATM, not even a bank here, just the prospect of such an establishment sometime in the near future. Crap. Another 20 minutes and three blocks later I finally found a real one and withdrew my moneys.
--At this point I was pretty confident. Dangerously confident, in fact, that I would be home in time to catch an episode of my favorite show on TV and be in bed at a reasonable time. After all, it was only 10:00. All I had left to do was catch a cab. No sweat. I ran straight out into the river and threw my arm from under my sad umbrella at the curb. Count to ten...aaaand...cab! CAB! Hey. What's this here. Um, guys, I'm ready now. Cab please. Choo Zoo Chuh! That's how you pronounce 'taxi' in Mandarin. I yelled it. Cab after cab after cab zoomed by. Almost all were full of passengers. Occasionally, an empty one would pass at breakneck speed. Most splashed tsunamis onto my pants, which were back down around my knees. I couldn't figure out what the problem was. Why weren't they stopping for me? I finally determined that I was standing downstream from some unspecified and momentarily invisible taxi pickup point. I walked up the street, but couldn't see the place. Taxis continued their speedy processional mocking. Occasional couples huddled under umbrellas with halfhearted attempts at snagging a passing coach, grateful for the excuse to spend more time in the same physical space. I reached a busy intersection and stood on the corner, catching two simultaneous directions of traffic with my outstretched hand. Nothing. I moved on. By the time 11:00 rolled around I could feel the rainwater sloshing around in my eyeballs. And I was hopelessly lost. I couldn't have returned to the performance hall if I'd wanted to, and I was smack in the middle of the endless, lifeless forbidden forest of after-hours office towers. A new tack was in order.
--Hotels will sometimes help non-customers, especially if the place is big and fancy and you are extremely nice and can do a decent 'I'm so pathetic and helpless' routine. Heh. They don't know who they're dealing with. I searched several blocks and finally found the brightly lit revolving door I was looking for. Doorman, plush carpets, fancy marble, perfect. I gave the uniform a confident smile and pushed into the lobby, where another uniform begged my pardon. 'Choo Zoo Chuh,' I answered. He squished his face up in confusion. I mimed talking on a telephone, and repeated 'Choo Zoo Chuh.'
'Sir, is there anything I can help you with?' !!! English! What luck!
I asked him if it would be possible to have the hotel call me a cab. He called over the prettiest woman on staff, their head of customer relations, and she told me that they would be overwhelmed with happiness to accommodate me. She led me to an arrangement of plush, opulent, air conditioned furniture (though it was raining, it was still 90 degrees outside), and told me to wait while they hailed a cab. No one takes tips in China, but this kind of service is actually quite common. It's just the Chinese way, I guess. I sat, relieved, and for the first time in an hour and a half, forgot about cabs entirely. I checked my email on my phone, read the program I still clutched, and chatted a bit with a Japanese businessman next to me. 20 mintues rolled by without my noticing. The lady returned. 'Sir, I am very sorry to say that we are unable to get a taxi to come to the hotel. We are open only one week, sir, and I am very sorry to say that they do not know our hotel yet, and I am very sorry to say that we cannot get one to stop at our door at this time. Please accept my sincere apologies.' what? Are you KIDDING me!? That's...well, that's just astounding! I can't believe it!
'No, no, of course, that's no problem. Thank you so much for trying to help me. I'll just go try my luck outside. Some more. Maybe I can find my way home on the subway or something. Thank you. Bye.'
'Sorry, sir, but the subway is closed one hour ago. Sorry.' Sigh.
As I approached the curb outside I found the first doorman drenched and defeated looking, still out in the night downpour attempting to hail me a cab. I thanked him profusely and watched as he ambled dejectedly to his post. If a freaking hotel doorman can't hail a cab out here, what hope have I??
--The next forty five minutes were a series of drenching splashes and cunning entrapments. I decided that there were a high enough volume of empty cabs that if I hid behind a light pole at a busy intersection, I could run out into traffic during the red lights and find one to just jump into right there in the middle of the street. After three such encounters, I came to the disheartening conclusion that this was not a good idea. I'm glad I don't speak Chinese, because the stuff those cab drivers screamed at me when I splatted onto their pristine interiors was probably the most hideous stuff one person can say to another. I hoped that they would take pity on my MeyGoaRen-ness (Americanicity) and just take me where I wanted to go. No such luck. One guy actually got out of the car and yanked my door open, and I jumped out before he could throw me onto the street.
--By midnight my umbrella was in tatters and I slopped along the gutter, lost and sobbing. The nice thing about such a rain, no one can see you cry. I kicked at floating trash and halfheartedly held my hand out while I looked for a hole to crawl into for the night. I wondered if they had homeless shelters in China. For the 105628500 time, a car drove by and dumped a man-sized wave upon my head. I felt myself begin to melt a little. I focused all my frustrations and anger on that car. I stared at it with enough force to light it on fire, even in this weather. And it stopped. It stopped? What's this? Would I actually get to yell at someone for this small injustice? No one exited the vehicle. I approached the passenger side with fervor and wrenched open the door. There was a taxi driver behind the wheel. He looked at me expectantly. His nonchalance was confusing. I backed away. This man was playing a game I didn't understand. What did he want with me?
--With a horrifyingly gentle smile he beckoned me inside. 'Where to?' he intoned in Chinese. No. Way. After more than two hours, three fights, the heights of riches and the depths of depravity, a cab just pulled up and stopped. For me.
--The relief of seeing my apartment building cannot be overstated. It was there. Shining, wet, and comforting. When the taxi driver pulled to a stop at the curb, I wept in his arms and promised to send him some gifts from Los Angeles when I returned home. He was a saint, a miracle-worker, an humanitarian of Nobel proportions. I stood in the street and watched his saintly taillights disappear into the mist, never to return again. Then I reached into my pocket to call my roommate to let me in from the continuing downpour, and discovered that I had left my cell phone in the cab. DAMN THAT $%*&@^!!
-c