Since it was TJ’s turn to baby-sit at the International Training Center (where, I am informed, the main function of our untrained, inexperienced foreigner presence is to attract parents and thus more money), I was free to travel this weekend. [And I’d just like to clarify that the reason that the aforementioned descent into elementary hell was only such because I didn’t prepare. My fault. Next time will be better.]

Luckily, two other laowai teachers, Gino and Guen, were planning an excursion to Nanjing on Saturday, so I invited myself along. Guen had no idea until Thrusday night that I was going with them. Heh, sorry. John, a British teacher, also came along, but Guen didn’t know he was coming until Friday night. Presumably she didn’t mind that we came along. We’re just keeping her on her toes.

We all met at the bus station at 9.30 on Saturday morning, hoping to take a bus around 10 and get to Nanjing in the noon hour. I was the designated Chinese speaker of the trip (though Gino has become quite adept at saying “Wo yao zhege” [I want this] and “Women yao qu naer” [We want to go there]), so I went to buy the tickets, but the woman at the window informed me that the bus didn’t leave until 11 and the 220 km ride would take four hours.

Say wha–?

So we killed some time with the travel games the John handily brought along. He and Gino faced off in chess while Guen and I played Connect Five.

Nearby there was this maddening scale/body analyzer machine that played a one minute loop alternating obnoxious electromusic with a cheery faux-voice proclaiming, “Welcome! Welcome! Come weigh yourself!” It was worse than when I worked at Blockbuster and had to suffer through a twenty-minute loop featuring an unbearable Black Eyed Peas song that made me want to claw my brains out my ears with the yellow plastic strips Blockbuster uses to lock its DVD cases. This body machine was turning me into Quentin Tarantino.

I wasn’t the only one. Finally, John just walked over and unplugged the machine, since we reasoned that if he was caught he could just look ignorant and foreign. His valorous act provided us with about twenty minutes of respite, until a woman and her twin sons tried to use the machine, which ate a few of their RMB. And then they figured out it was unplugged. Newman!

Then we rode the bus and so on, as all my students say even when there is no ‘so on.’ The bus driver said it would only take three hours, which made us all much happier, and then it only ended up taking two and a half. Ah, the bliss of human fallibility.

After checking into our hostel (top photo), we went for some lunch at Fuzimiao, a well-known tourist draw. We headed into a cafeteria-esque little place where you exchange money for tickets and then elbow your way to a window, shout your order, and hustle over to a table. Gino was gallant enough to split 12 RMB order of xiaolong bao (soup dumplings) with me, and the rest of the food was delightfully room temperature with lots of congealing oil. And yet it was somehow satisfying.

That’s me and Gino [in black and white to disguise the icky lighting] at the statues outside the cafeteria. He claims that he was trying to mimic the statue behind us, but I think he’s really thinking, “I do not want to be in this picture.”

After filling our bellies we took a bus to the Nanjing Massacre Museum. In Huzhou, taking the bus is not the ordeal that it is in Shanghai or Beijing, where everyone crowds in and gets a deep look into the pores of his fellow man. In Nanjing it wasn’t quite as I-can-tell-you-didn’t-brush-your-teeth-this-morning, but it was still more of a second- or third-date cozy. That’s just the American in me talking, though. There’s no privacy or personal space in China, especially on public transportation. In America might say, “Oh! Sorry!” when you accidentally brush someone’s hand or nudge her shoulder, but here people don’t think twice. They aren’t flirting—they’re just getting from point A to point B. Or maybe the whole population flirts on a daily basis. There you go—population problem solved.

When we got off at the museum, there were hordes of school kids in identical tracksuits waiting for the bus.

They waved and called “Hello!”

When their bus came, the stampeded for the door.

The day then took a more somber note.

I thought these sculptures outside the entrance were quite evocative, and I was cinematographically pleased with the pool of water and black reflective marble beneath them.

It was interesting to be inside the memorial area, which was so hushed and expansive when right outside the wall was a bustling street and numerous cranes.

I don’t want to sound gushy or anything, but this museum definitely had an impact on me. I’ve been to a fair number of museums in China, and with the exception of the Shanghai Museum, I’ve never really been impressed. Museums here focus mostly on numbers (size, material and weight of an object) than on historical or artistic implication. The massacre museum, while inclusive of cheesy mannequin replicas, had a lot of photographs and personal accounts, which were quite gruesome. How can people be so brutal? I just don’t understand.

Afterward, it took us about twenty or so minutes to restore ourselves to our previous levels of chipper-ness, but another snug bus ride with some English-speaking Chinese girls (one of whom was named Sweaty) perked us right up. We met one of Guen’s college professors, Kan, for dinner and a little nighttime stroll around Fuzimiao.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have a food blog and I did not take pictures of the spectacular dinner, which included the Nanjing special salted duck, my favorite eggplant dish, and five other tasty dishes, all of which I consumed gluttonously.

Five hail Mary’s and a banana split and all shall be forgiven?

Well, I did the banana split, so maybe I’m half forgiven? Afterward, we went to a coffee place, had ice cream, and talked about Chinese history for about two hours. Then we got into a heated debate (which ended up being us against John, whom I credit for not folding). I haven’t had a friendly, heated debate like that for a long time.

The next morning, Gino, John, and I planned to go to Purple Mountain to see Sun Yat-sen’s tomb, but Guen had to return to Huzhou earlier to tutor. Before we parted ways, we had breakfast together, and, girl after my own heart, Guen had decided the night before that we would get breakfast at a bakery just up the street.

Mmm, pastry. Mine was filled with red beans and encrusted in almonds.

I decided that I should have a complete and balanced nutritious breakfast, so I chased with a zhen zhu naicha (milk tea with tapioca bubbles—essentially sugary syrup, whole milk, chewy tapioca balls with perhaps a splash of tea for good measure).

Then the three of us set off for Purple Mountain. The driver told us to get off about three or four stops too early (though still on the mountain), so we got a nice tree-lined walk up the mountain.

Breakfast really is the most important meal of the day.

Then we arrived at Zhong Shan Lin, Dr. Sun’s Mausoleum. There were lots of tourists here, mostly Chinese. But the side paths were relatively quiet.

I was all geared up to take pictures of John and Gino. But John hates getting paparazzi-ed. See this dirty, slightly wary look he gave me earlier on the street?

Yeah. There was a moratorium on John candids. And then Gino issued one too.

Well great. I say I go to Nanjing with these people, but they won’t let me prove it?

Fine, then.

I just spied on other people.

Mostly kids. They’re cute.

Like this doll in the yellow.

On the way in she and her parents were behind us, and she and her parents were trying to guess where we were from. She guessed America and/or England.

Smart kid.

Practical.

Doesn’t this couple just give you hope?

One of those moments of happiness that they’ll probably forget in a week or a year or five years.

But all that matters is that it was there.

Proof I was there.

Aside from my spying on kids and families, I snuck a few photos of Gino, because his moratorium wasn’t as forceful as John’s and, let’s face it: I was a little afraid of John’s British wrath.

I did manage to get a picture of Gino and John willingly smiling for the camera.

See? They are not imaginary friends. They’re quite jovial, no?

I still snuck pictures though. Aren’t they poignant from the back?

Back to what I mentioned above about museums in China—this one was rather typical. They mentioned that Sun is the Father of Modern China and that he overthrew the Qing Dynasty and came to power and died of liver cancer, but it glossed over history and employed heavy focus to the architectural specs of the mausoleum. But when you visit an historical figures memorial, you have to expect a bit of gloss.

We headed to the Lingyu Temple Scenic Area to squeeze the last few hours of our Nanjing experience before taking the bus back to lil’ old Huzhou.

Look what I found by the side of the road.

He may become someone’s dinner soon.

Luckily he’s got some good camouflage with the box.

The Scenic Area featured a Buddhist temple, which made me quite happy. I love Buddhist temples—the smell, the aesthetic, the quiet, the color.

I think that, in terms of aesthetics, I am a Buddhist.

I love the smoky aroma of incense and offerings.

And the flags they hang (especially the Tibetan prayer flags).

Gino and I took this same picture independently of each other. See it here.

At the Confucius Temple in Qufu, there were red pieces of wood on which you write a wish or prayer. This one had a tree with gold leaves on which one could hang red ribbons, presumably for the same purpose.

I didn’t want to pay the 40 RMB, but I find something gratifying in hanging up prayers for others to see. It’s comforting to know that others have hopes, wishes, prayers, what have you. It’s what connects us. It’s rather like the religious Post Secret.

May love, in any and all of its forms, always be my reason.

What would you write on your ribbon?

Tags: Nanjing, travel