Jonsi wakes me up. It’s a pleasant change from the cheesy alarm ring tones on my ancient Nokia mobile, which was stolen yesterday — a dull Sunday afternoon at a Coffee Bean. I couldn’t say with certainty that it was, but my iPod was jacked last week. That I know without a doubt. I was walking through a metro station listening to Daft Punk and suddenly I wasn’t. Later I was told that it’s one of the more notorious local pick-pocketing tricks.
For the past two months, I’ve been living on the 19th floor of a vast apartment community in the Putuo District, interning for an English business magazine. As usual, the first thing I do is to slide open my window. And as usual, I’m greeted by a wave of early morning humidity and the distant sight of elderly Chinese ladies getting their exercise on at the playground. Some are pedaling stationery cycles, some practicing Tai Chi. I don’t know why but it brings me joy to watch them for a few minutes.
My office is just four miles south of here, but in the clusterfuck of morning hour traffic—both human and vehicular—the commute takes close to an hour. I trudge up the street past a hodgepodge of carts and vendors to the metro station, ride Line 3 for two stops, transfer onto Line 1 and cruise past People’s Square and five other stops to finally touch down in the Xuhui District, one leg of central Shanghai’s downtown.
Between 8:30 and 9:30 a.m., the entire working population of Shanghai takes my transit. I am mauled, jabbed and perspired on. But a jam-packed metro train always make for great people-watching. Most faces have the same message plastered on them: let me just get from point A to point B. The monotonous hum of the train engine is punctured by the overhead announcements and the occasional flip of the morning paper. Some read. Some sleep. Some fiddle with their phones. Some stare at others. Some stare at themselves, reflected in the tinted windows.
I enjoy work, mostly because I like my colleagues very much. Long hours are interrupted by group coffee runs and smoke breaks in the stairwell, where sex and dirty vices have lately become the themes of our conversations.
I decide to walk home from the office, as I’ve done for several evenings now. The hour-long walk is soothing. The heat by then has calmed down, the sun just about to set. Street vendors are selling off the last of their apples, bananas, watermelons and cabbages. They compete with one another to catch the attention of passersby. It’s fun to watch.
Motorists weave through the rush hour traffic. Some protect their heads with neon-colored construction helmets. Some don’t wear any. That reminds me of one morning a few weeks ago when I’d woken up too late for my usual commute. With no taxis in sight, I approached a group of loitering motorists. A few exchanged words and 30 RMB (about $5) later, I found myself on the backseat of a stranger’s motorcycle, holding onto his shoulders for dear life as we weaved through honking traffic, pedestrians and cyclists at a hair-whipping speed. I made it to my office in one piece, with five minutes to spare. It was the most frightening and exhilarating 20 minutes of my life.
I know I’m about halfway home when I pass the old Chinese lady in front of the Laundromat. She looks to be in her late 70s. Her slight face is framed by a dark bob, possibly dyed, possibly a wig. She sits there like a statue, with the same vacant eyes. It’s as if she hasn’t moved an inch since the day before and the day before that. Cars honk and zoom by, couples maul each other affectionately, fights break out. She sees nothing.
I trudge on. Trudge past the Wagas and the Coffee Bean, past more fruit vendors and the flute-playing homeless man, across the bridge over the Wusong River, past the smell of roasted corn, past the friendly door-woman and through the elevator doors. And I open my front door to be bitch-slapped by the indisputable smell of curry.
