We waited for a taxi for an hour, arms waving with increasing fluster. Yet, somehow, despite the laws time and of gravity and limitations of my girly chicken arms, we made it across town, through the train station and onto our bullet train. With this mountain of luggage in tow. Oh, right, and my one-year-old.
Our lovely hosts in Shanghai. You couldn't ask for a nicer friend or a more quintessentially adorable, and might I add, agreeable, child.
Somehow, to me this image is quintessentially China. The detritus of lunch, heedlessly tossed aside. It speaks to the Chinese psyche, I think. Fiercely self-interested, openly careless, passionate, and obsessed with good food. This may on the surface seem ugly, and yes, there are aspects of China that are ugly. Still, it's the dross and scrap is captivating and truthful. And if we are honest, who amongst us isn't fiercely self-interested. But maybe, as Westerners, it's in our self-interest to hide this tendency.
I almost forgot to take my daily picture, but just as we were preparing to leave for an evening in an establishment that serves alcohol and does not accept patrons under the age of 18 (can we talk about how this was literally my first such evening in 29 months?) there was a barrage of explosions. A familiar feature of Chinese life that I had forgotten. Fireworks bursting in the dark, firecrackers popping and clashing just after the sun comes up. Sometimes they usher in festival days. Sometimes they disrupt your sleep for no reason at all.
Found, in a DYI market that contained stalls and stalls full of tiles and toilets and wood plank and flooring, slogans and characters adorning the walls.
A pagoda perched atop a sky scraper as viewed from my all-time favourite hotel.
Shoes in a windowsill and graffiti. Which would never be tolerated in China, except for in one neighbourhood in Shanghai.