A Bad Omen:
My journey began with a bad omen. On the way to the airport, I came upon a grotesque auto accident which had occurred just moments before. A car was overturned and spun perpendicular to oncoming traffic. A man lay on his side, crumpled and motionless in a spray of broken glass. He appeared to be dead. An off-duty fireman directed traffic around him.
I don't believe in omens. I didn't like this one.
Atlantis:
I arrived in Beijing under a cloud. Perhaps in a cloud. A moist wool blanket piled up and threaded through the eyes maybe. For 3 days it was so. I looked at the sky and wondered. It's not just that that it was completely overcast, but that the whole idea of "sky" started to seem like a rumor. No landmarks could prove otherwise—no sun, clouds, birds nor motion. The humidity reached its zenith on the 3rd day and I was forced to abandon the concept of sky. Yes, this is an underwater city, I thought. You have gills. Breathe deeply and swim fast. This made sense and comforted me.
Then inexplicably, on the 4th day, the weather broke into perfection. Clear, blue, cloudless skies in all directions. It stayed this way for 3 days—each day more perfect than the last. My gills flapped a bit in protest.
Ikea Mindf***:
Ikea China was designed by a deranged psychopath—a Luddite or Anarchist perhaps, who believed that if one created a shopping experience so alienating, arduous, and humiliating, consumers might completely lose their will to participate in market capitalism.
1. You cannot order Ikea products by phone. Nor online. You must go to the "store," which is remote. Even when you find the "store," you can't seem to get into it. You can see it looming, but you can't figure out which path will take you to the door. Once inside, the joke's on you, and it gets funnier and funnier (for the Luddites) as you go along.
2. To begin, you must go to the second floor. Here are kiddie products and a café serving Swedish meatballs. What if I want to go directly to kitchenware, or go directly to buy a rug? Impossible. You must pass through ALL products to get anything. What if I decide to leave the store right now, before shopping? Impossible. You can't get out. The only way out is THROUGH. You must pass through ALL products, and you must ascend in psychotic Candy Land style up and up and up to the top floor, which may be 4 or 7, it's impossible to tell.
Once you find something you want, you're told to write down it's 20-digit SKU number and carry the paper around with you. But other products you're supposed to pick up and carry around. It's not clear which ones you can pick up and which one's you have to write down. You're supposed to put the picked up items in a satchel. At different stages, you are required to transfer the goods from the small satchel to a larger cart. Later you'll be prevented from taking the larger cart any further and you'll have to transfer the items to another larger vehicle. So as shoppers gradually fill the carts, the carts grow. But the travel lanes do not grow. In effect, they are shrinking. Traffic jams, confusion, and road rage now reign supreme.
Next you descend down through the Inferno to what seems like an exit, or a checkout. But it's not. You're not even close to the end. You just want to check out, but how? Where? Can I go directly to checkout? Isn't there an elevator that will take me there? No. The only way out is THROUGH. And so you shop. You see products you've seen several times before…why am I seeing them again? Should I pick them up or write them down? The staff don't seem to have any clue how the whole thing works either. They look terrified and confused.
When I finally did reach the checkout, I proudly presented my list of SKU numbers. The cashier informed me that this was not at all the way to buy things. You have to hand-carry all those items through checkout. Even rugs, dressers, bedroom sets. Somehow you're supposed to haul it all down and jam it through a checkout lane which is no more than 2 and ½ feet wide.
So I made a mistake, but can't I just have the items delivered or something? No. You must begin again. So you exit the store and reenter. Then up to the 2nd floor and the meatballs. And then up and up and up. There is no way out but THROUGH. The second time through, I got nearly to the bottom and then remembered I had forgotten one important item. There is, of course, no way to go directly to this department. You must retrace your steps through the circles of Luddite hell back to the source of the goods.
There are many, many more humiliations and tortures which I have omitted. It pains me to think of the time I squandered there. I will speak no more of this place.
Hump:
I wandered a side street near my university. I came upon the "Hump Café." I went it. Had a beer. Sat between pictures of Charlie Parker and Cher. Two shop girls in pressed pink uniforms came in and bought some kind of Chinese Lotto tickets. They giggled scratched and lost. Another guy watched over their shoulder. He bought some too. He lost too. Nobody humped. Charlie and Cher looked on.
Moto-Inflamata:
Near the embassy district, I walked around killing time before my Salon appointment. Suddenly a vintage WWII motorcycle with side-car ripped out from a side street and tore up the wrong lane of a one-way street. The engine roared—nay bellowed as the rider stood erect and defiant in the stirrups, leaning lustily over the front handlebars. Astride the grunty beast was a young woman, 20-something, dirty blond hair—real dirty and flapping angrily in the putrid Beijing air—wife-beater tank top, military style cropped pants and aviator shades. Finally, riveted to her lips, was a cigarette which she vengefully inhaled to the point that her cheeks reached inward and nearly met inside her mouth. I thought about that.
Suddenly, inexplicably, I remembered that "3-6 Mafia" won an Oscar in 2006 for "It's hard out here for a pimp"—one of the most depraved sentiments uttered in the last half-century. I thought about that and the Moto-Inflamata, and the rider, and her cigarette, and her sidecar.
Ever-Lovingly Yours,
Temple
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