When I was a bookish little boy, biographies were my favorite section in the elementary school library. I must've been no older than 10 when I found a dusty red book with only three words embossed on the cover: Mao Tse-Tung. This antiquated volume (so old that it used his former anglicized surname instead of the contemporary Zedong) led Mao to become one of the folk heroes of my youth…at the time, I saw him as a 20th Century Robin Hood, leading the common man to victory against his imperialist oppressors. I think I even asked my Mom if she could pick up raw ginger root from the grocery, because I’d read he liked to munch on it in the morning. Just as I’d pretend to be Washington crossing the Delaware by hopping over the small creek that ran behind our house, I’d imagine myself as the Chairman leading the People’s Army through the nearby woods on a not-so-Long March.
I also remember reading that, true to his Hunan homeland, Mao enjoyed spicy food. I think he would’ve been proud of me yesterday, when I ate a scalding Sichuan lunch in Xi’an before boarding a train for my overnight return to Beijing. Perhaps it wasn’t the smartest thing to ingest before a twelve-hour journey, but it was delicious, and besides a strange dream that awoke me with a panicked realization that I am on the other side of the world from my home, the trip back was for the most part uneventful. After fighting the ludicrous crowd amassed at the Xi’an Railway Station (and I thought the Beijing West station was bad) uneventful was exactly what I wanted.
Now a slightly smarter Sino-sojourner, I was wise to disingenuous drivers. The first cabbie I approached tried to arrange a fare to my hostel in the range of $45…I looked him square in the eye and told him, "You’re f’ing out of your f’ing mind", and found another taxi that took me for $5. Because I arrived so early, I could not yet check-in, but I left my bag in the hostel storage closet and set off to see if the Mao Memorial Hall was open yet, as it had been closed when I first tried to go. Today was the nicest day I’d seen yet, and the weekend crowds at Tiananmen were a testament to that. It wasn’t long before I was approached by a horde of hawkers, one of them selling something so kitsch I just couldn’t pass it up, a commemorative Mao watch. It’s good that I bargained with him, because the band broke right after I’d bought it, but I managed to successfully put it back together. Because I was so engrossed in my watch repair, I’d inadvertently stepped into the unbelievable line of people paying their solemn respects to the Father of the People’s Republic. I’d joined a steadily moving queue of thousands, spent 45 minutes in line, then was told I could not bring my camera in, and had to pay 5 Yuan to check it across the street. Disheartened about having lost my place in line, I was determined to make it into the Mausoleum before its noon closure. I raced across the street, went through the line again, and this time passed easily though security, the guards sympathetic to my long wait, and in no doubt of my harmless nature upon seeing my new watch.
For all of the trouble, I’m actually quite pleased that they are so strict about photography in the Memorial Hall. As I’ve alluded to in previous posts, one of the main reasons for this trip is to see things that just can’t be brought up on Google. It’s nice to know that there are still sacred places on this planet, off-limits to the Polaroid hoi polloi. The experience was otherworldly. In quiet awe, I was quickly shuffled past the Chairman, preserved in a crystal casket, and draped in a red flag emblazoned with hammer and sickle. It was a moment I will not soon forget.
After retrieving my camera, I headed off in search of another hot pot restaurant, but the neighborhood to the east of Tiananmen is far more local, and English signage was non-existent. So, I went into the first place I saw a considerable amount of locals in, most of them eating another personal favorite of mine, steamed dumplings.
As usual, it was frustrating to place my order, and once I did, I realized I’d ordered WAY too much food. However, I was hungry (I hadn’t eaten since my Sichuan lunch the day before), and it was tasty, so I downed every morsel. I heard a voice behind me say “It’s easy to get fat here.” I immediately concurred, and so began my discussion with Andrew, a London professional who’d been working in Beijing for quite a while. I informed him that I needed all the help I could get, and through our conversation, learned that he too had embarked on a Round-the-World voyage when he was my age. It was really great to kick the old peanut around with someone who not only spoke the same language, but had the same sense of humor. After lunch, we walked a few blocks, enjoying the weather, and he was kind enough to buy me a cup of coffee, empathetic to the budget of a backpacker. I got the skinny on many of the destinations on my itinerary (as he’s been there before) and how to spend the remainder of my time in Beijing without going broke. Great bloke, and I may meet up with him at some point later in the week.
But right now, I am conspicuously worn-out, and while the Saturday night scene in the hutong may be tempting, I have to get up early tomorrow to catch a bus out-of-town to the biggest draw of them all…the Great Wall.
