Suitably Exhausted

The days have been long and eventful.

On Sunday we visited the Forbidden City. The compound is enormous. It could easily take two or three days to thoroughly examine every artifact, building, temple, praying room, throne, and water closet. Wondering from one massive structure to the next, Keith and I weaved our way through thousands of visitors. Short of the courtyard within the Vatican City, I've never noticed so many people in one place.

Much of the Forbidden City is being rennovated for the 2008 Olympics. Some of the buildings are completely covered in scaffolding and construction materials. One courtyard leads to the next, as one walks through gate after gate, always confronted with a another magnificent spectacle. It truly is a facinating piece of Chinese history.

After spending hours forming blisters and soars on my feet in the Forbidden City, we decided to work our way to the East of the compound. We walked for blocks, searching for some kind of cheap, delicious sustainence. What we really wanted was dumplings, a treat that once tasted, invaded our dreams, and caused consistent, relentless craving. Damn the dumplings! Damn them and their dilectible, irresistible cores of limitless flavor. Anyway, we walked, and searched. After some time, we turned onto a street that seemed a severe contrast to what we had previously experienced. The neighborhood that houses our hostel consists of small, cramped little alleys, street side vendors, little restaurants serving chicken and beef on skewers, and swarms of both locals and visitors. This street, two or three blocks from the Forbidden City, seemed more like a mix of New York City, modern Chinese architecture, and the same stuff we found in the ghetto for ten times the price. It looked interesting and somewhat bewildering, so we proceeded. After wandering through a mall that may have been a transplant from Denver or any other large American city, eating some of the best cafeteria food one could imagine procurring in a cafeteria, and wondering why we were still in this very refined, modernized section of Beijing, we were confronted by two little Chinese girls who seemed innocent enough - if innocence were know a trait of the devil.

They indicated that they wanted to practice their English. They inferred that they wanted us to buy artwork created by students from Beijing University. They seemed genuine - at least partially. After some deliberation, and a trust in the perceived goodness of human beings, I decided to accept their invitation. I use the word "I", because Keith had quickly passed all decision making power to me, thereby excusing himself from the potential debacle this bizarre encounter might rapidly become. So, we followed. They lead us through a department store, up three stories, into a large eating area, and then into a tea house situated towards the rear of the room. It immediately became obvious that this so-called art show was actually some kind of extravagent scam. I had once again become victim of my notorious ablility to trust all people, regardless of whether they have a small pointed tail, and a weasel in their pocket.

We entered the fancy tea room, and were directed to a private room in the back. This wasn't good. We were warned of tea house, art show scams, and had already been coaxed into two during the first day of our visit. But this was the Death Star of cons. As we sat in this little room, faced with supposed student artwork, and two constantly smiling vixens, I was given a menu for tea. This couldn't be good. They wanted us to buy them tea. Dammit. I don't even like to buy myself stuff, let alone two obvious con-artists. I opened the menu only to find cups and pots of tea at hightly inflated prices. I quickly searched for the most inexpensive item on the menu - maybe some two day old muffins or a single boiled egg that could be shared between four people. I widened my already bulging eyes, and found only tea that should have cost fifty-cents for five dollars. Maybe we could all share one cup, or just buy a tea bag, and make our own tea in the bathroom. I grumbled and sighed, and rubbed my face like a man in great duress. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'll be traveling for months, and I can only afford things that cost less than the cheapest form of dirt. I can't buy buy either of you tea." I was rather proud of this. In a previous life, I might have conceeded to the pressure and persistence of these devilish creatures. But not today. Today I would readily admit that I'm cheap, I be damn proud of it.

The madness continued as these two experienced and rather capable women attempted to lull us into a complete and disturbing state of complacency. They progressed into a half hour exposition of how difficult it is to be a student in China, why we as rich, and successful Americans should contribute to the well-being and survival of the poor and willing, the history of China, Chinese art, Chinese symbology, the Chinese language, the animals of the zodiac, quantum mechanics, cooking, why it's not a good idea to swim after you eat, and how many dogs would be required to reinact the great battles of China. Facinating. After listening to Keith and one of the girls converse for some time about how everything they've told us was meant to build a strong and lasting friendship, the real objective moved from beneath the shadows of expensive tea into the muted light. Selling art. Over-priced, more than likely massively reproduced, and something that could easily be found on the streets of Beijing for a fraction of the cost. I felt like unleashing a small of army of minature monkeys into the room to thrash the hanging scrolls of meaningful Chinese history and symbology. But, I resisted. So, I sat there. Keith had already told the two scarabs that he liked one of the paintings, but never purchased anything on the spot. A lie, but a smart one. So, once a again, I was left to steer the ship through the reef. "I like this one," I said, pointing to a painting of some cherry blossoms in the corner. It means "this" they said, and "that", and "this" and "this" - and "this". "You don't say," I said. "How much does it cost?" "Oh, that's nice." I should have been obvious to them at this point that I couldn't afford anything, let alone a three hundred dollar painting. Realizing at least my partial reluctance, they moved on to something smaller. "How about this," she said, "I painted it." I looked up confusion. "You painted it?!" At this point, the situation turned into me apologizing, and sighing, and saying "no, I can't" so many times, I thought for a moment that I couldn't say anthing else. They shrugged and looked disappointed, and then pushed harder and harder, and I finally said to Keith, "It's time to leave." Keith left some money for some peculiar reason, and we departed after buring two hours of time that could never be reclaimed. Damn my gulliblity.

I already written far too much. On Monday we biked so far and so long in Beijing, that I thought I'd been anally raped by a blunt metal pole. Today we checked out a portion of the Great Wall. We had to hike to the top of a tall ridge, where untouched remnants of the stone and brick blockade still existed. Other, more famous parts of the wall have been rebuilt, and are saturated with tourists. Other than our group, we didn't see another soul. It was refreshing to be alone. Pictures are taking too long to upload. I'll try tomorrow.