Previously on Plate of Wander: Gino is 26, Turkish binge, a Bunderful morning, skateboarders, noodles in the wind, and the Shanghai taco quest. Read Gino’s account here.

Due to the preceding late night/early morning, none of us awoke until 11:30 AM. As more of a morning person, I haven’t done this since the drudgery of high school, and the lack of morning kind of messed with my head. Until about 4 that afternoon, I felt like someone had stuffed my head with cotton balls.

But no matter—there were tacos afoot! The place from which Gino wanted to get tacos also happened to deliver. So with visions of tortillas and enchiladas dancing in our heads, we ordered what sounded like a lot of food for 5 people. Gino ordered four tacos, an enchilada plate, and a burrito to spit between the two of us. That’ll tide us over ‘til lunch, right?

While we waited for the delivery, we killed time playing pool. Gino and John had just taught me to play the weekend before, so I was ready to practice again. After our first game, a Chinese guest at the hostel came and asked to play the next game. Gino, as the winner, took the challenge.

She looked completely unassuming, but this girl was a hustler! A pool shark! She moved so fast I couldn’t even get a clear picture of her.

It’s a good thing there was no money on this game.

“I’m quietly getting my ass kicked,” muttered Gino about halfway through the game.

And that was unfortunate for him, but as I had been conscious for over an hour and a half without ingesting anything, my blood sugar was going below sea level. Then Gino reminded me of the mangosteens I had bought the day before.

Mangosteens! Oh, yes! We had been on Nanjing Lu about to go to the fake market, when a man selling purple fruit called out to me. I had eaten the fruit before in Beijing, but had never seen it in America, so I didn’t know what it was. Then this man called to me, “Mangosteens!”

I froze, then abruptly turned around. Mangosteens? Those are mangosteens?You mean the glorious fruit that foodies extol? Those were mangosteens?!

I bought four. Not cheap, those purple globes of wonder, but worth every mao.

So when I decided to eat a mangosteen on Sunday morning, it was not enough to just eat it. There had to be a photoshoot.

I could not in good conscience let this moment pass undocumented.

By the time I had futzed around with the camera and the mangosteen, the food arrived. At long last! All of us went outside to help carry it in. We ordered a lot of food, right? Twelve tacos! Burritos! Enchiladas! We would need hands!

I was a little surprised when Guen’s hand sufficed. Not a good sign. We unwrapped the tin foil and…

There were twelve tacos, alright. Twelve palm-sized tacos. Say WHA?

This is not a taco. Bits of meat that weight less than a thumb stuffed into a dry tortilla is NOT A TACO. Poor Gino. He had really wanted some real tacos. (Maybe he’s in the wrong country? Shhh! Don’t tell him I said that.) He was pretty let down.

To be fair, the menu was very deceptive.

Their mission statement is, in my opinion better translated as: Our company’s responsibility is to provide high-quality food products, excellent flavor and reasonable prices, while providing gourmet Mexican food to local Chinese and foreigners alike.

But if you want sentences that read like Sarah Palin wrote them, be my guest. Your food’s not ‘gourmet’ anyway.

I’m guessing she doesn’t eat. We passed this ad at least three times a day, and it scared the calories right out of my stomach every time.

After the ‘meal’ followed more “What are you doing?” “What are YOU doing?” (think vultures in The Jungle Book—Now don’t start that again.) Guen had to return to Shanghai to tutor a student, TJ and his girlfriend wanted to go shopping, Nellie had stuff to do. Which left…me and Gino. Again. But after the taco let down, he was a man on a mission for good food, and, well, let’s face it: I’m kind of your go-to girl for food. Plus, we both enjoy walking around and taking pictures. So hopefully he didn’t mind a second shadow.

Our first order of edible business was Honey Waffles.

We had been eyeing this place since the day before, and never was there a better time for a sugar-induced pick-me-up. A little hair of the dog, if you will.

We ordered crepes filled with ice cream, whipped cream, and whatever topping you want. A taco of a different sort! I went for the one with chestnuts and caramel. How could you say no to a combo like that?

Gino went for strawberry, so I guess one could say no fairly easily.

We saw her while we were eating.

She gave us both pause from inhaling our crepes.

The crepes improved our moods significantly, so buzzing on sugar and carbs, we whipped out the cameras and headed out in search of more food.

Or?

Men play cards on the streets no matter what city you’re in.

Part of Shanghai are, like Los Angeles, essentially one gigantic freeway clusterfuck.

About half an hour later we stopped for milk tea by the hanging shoes. The only way to follow sugary food is with a sugary drink!

Then I looked to my left, where a hair salon had posted pictures of models and their haircuts, except these models’ eyes had obviously (and not too adeptly) been digitally enhanced.

“Talk about Photoshop,” I said, lifting my camera to my face. This needed to be documented on the blog.

In the blink of a (non-Photoshopped) eye, this is what I saw through my viewfinder:

I think this is what Tyra Banks means when she says “Smile with your eyes.” Gino could be America’s Next Top Model.

By this time my stomach was pretty heavily saturated with calories. Those milk teas are NOT for the faint of stomach, especially on top of one of those sugar ice cream caramel nut crepe.

But then the fates decided to play a cruel, cruel trick on me, as we came upon this:

If you didn’t read Chinese, you would walk right past this street and never known what you were missing, because you wouldn’t have known that this says ‘xiaochi jie,’ which means ‘Snack Street.’

Why, God? WHY NOW? Why now when I cannot possibly fit anything else into my stomach? Why why why why why?

Maybe it was a good thing that I couldn’t eat everything in sight? But I don’t see how that could possibly be good.

Snack street. It was hopping and it wasn’t a mealtime. But all the time is mealtime in China. That’s why we work so well.

Like the Bund, Snack Street is a great place to steal moments of strangers’ lives.

It’s fun to spy on people while they eat.

I struck gold with this mother and son. Take a look.

Mom takes a bite of chuar (meat skewer).

Mom leans down.

Mom—wait she’s not going to–?

No, is she–? Is she going to get all…avian on us here?

Oh! Oh! She is! Talk about a helicopter parent.

Oooohhhhhhh! See? If I had been hungry and eating, I totally would have missed that.

So something good actually came out of my inability to eat. That probably won’t become the norm, by the way.

Judging by the line, those must be good dumplings.

Curse the limitations of the human stomach!

And then, like waking in the middle of a good dream, Snack Street was over.

Sigh.

But on the other side was this cool sculpture, which was good for a few pictures.

And just down the block was our friend Haibao, the Expo mascot. Click on the picture to make it bigger and learn more about him.

He gave me a high-five.

We’re thisclose.

He’s everywhere. He’s watching me.

Everyone’s excited for Christmas, the national Chinese holiday

We ended up in Renmin Gongyuan, aka People’s Park, on the hunt for (inedible) postcards, when we stumbled upon this:

There were pieces of paper clipped to the bushes everywhere.

What was going on? Was it a memorial? Time for a closer look:

The one on the left says (more or less): Woman, last name Zhu Born March, 1966. 1.6 meters tall, never married. Banking professional, now works at an insurance company, wants a man who is a professional (public service worker, doctor, teacher, science researcher etc.) Previously married or with small children is fine. Contact Mr. Zhu’s cell phone.

“Do you understand what you’re reading?” I heard a male voice ask me in Chinese. I looked up to find an older man looking at me curiously.

“More or less,” I replied. By then I was pretty sure I knew what was going on. I had read about this before in the newspaper: matchmaking, either on behalf of yourself or your offspring. But I wasn’t sure if my Chinese skills were fooling me. So I asked, “What is all this?”

“It’s for people who want to find love,” he replied.

Score one for four years of studying Chinese!

We proceeded to have the “You speak Chinese! How many years have you been here? You speak so well!” conversation, and he asked whether Gino, who was standing quietly by, understood. No. Gino will never know what I said about him (insert evil cackle here). Then the man asked me, “Are you looking for love?”

Chinese people love to ask me about my love life. “22 years old? How do you not have a boyfriend? Don’t you want one? It’s about time, don’t you think! Do you like Chinese boys? You should find a Chinese boyfriend.” As if I could just pick one out in a department store. The main message: get married, have a baby, and then your life will be a success and you can live out the remainder of your decades in the comfort of knowing you are not a spinster, that you have not failed, you are not a social pariah, and you have reached the end all be all of Life. Congratulations.

He asked me again, “Are you looking for love?’”

In the grand scheme of things, sure. But am I looking for love (i.e. marriage ASAP) right now in a park filled with elderly matchmakers? No. No I am not.

We continued on, but the day was winding down. The last bus back to Huzhou left at 7:30, and it was already closing in on 5. So we had no choice but to pack it in, eat a quick last meal (and gelato on my part—I hadn’t eaten enough sugar yet) and haul it to the bus station.

I really did not want to come back to Huzhou. I had forgotten how exciting it is to be in a big city. I don’t think I would want to live in Shanghai, but being there was like stepping back into the world. I had forgotten how much I missed non-Huzhou food (there is very little variety here) and lots of things to see.

And I’m going to be perfectly honest here: I liked having other foreigners around. They were everywhere! I felt bad that I liked having them around, but I know that the reason I enjoyed it is that it took the heat off of me. I was no longer a large percentage of the foreign population. I wasn’t the star anymore—I was in the ensemble, and it was a relief. There weren’t as many gawkers, or exclamations of “Foreigner!” “She’s so tall!” “She’s so pretty!” There weren’t people shouting “Hello!” at me everywhere I went. I was out from under the microscope, the pressure was off.

The whole cab ride to the bus station I prayed that, for some reason, we would not make the bus back and we’d have no choice but to stay in Shanghai another night. But, sadly, at 7:20, we were on the bus heading back to Huzhou.

Goodbye, hostel alley.

It was a successful three-day celebration of Gino’s twenty-six years, pathetic tacos aside. A dream deferred, those tacos. I hope that when Gino finally gets the taco he’s literally been dreaming of, it’s everything he wanted. And I hope that every time he eats a taco in the future, he remembers the world’s saddest taco in Shanghai on his 26th birthday. It’s memories like that that make the fabric of life a little richer.

Tags: Shanghai, travel