China Part 8: Graduation

Today was short and sweet. We took the bus to the main campus of Shanghai’s Traditional Chinese Medicine University, passing along the way some strange sights flickering between the cables of the suspension bridges.

I swear it’s a UFO. A flipped-over triangular UFO. Who builds inverted buildings like that?

We were welcomed to the main campus with many smiles from the heads of our program, and we took the seats in the front row of a large room. Behind the few program organizers hung this projection.

One by one our names were called. We walked up, did that awkward take-diploma-with-wrong-hand-and-force-handshake-in-other-hand shuffle, and flipped open the fancy red certificate case that housed our proof that we successfully completed a course in the application and theory of Chinese medicine.

After receiving this diploma, we were allowed entrance into Shanghai’s TCM museum. Unfortunately, we were not allowed to take pictures. But as I wondered through, I can guarantee that I came across all sorts of picture-worthy things, from stone acupuncture needles to a giant tiger’s paw, strips of decayed and now preserved tiger flesh hanging like shriveled curtains from the bones.

Yum.

All manner of critters were jarred up and preserved, including snakes and seahorses, to be used for medicinal purposes. Mandrake root, its curled tendrils climbing the sides of its glass container, looked more human than plant. Huge, curved horns from various animals rested on higher shelves, waiting to be powdered for herbal remedies.

Thus I wandered through the hundreds and hundreds of cases of ancient Chinese medicinal supplies and tools, saying goodbye to my TCM course and preparing to expand my idea of a classroom — from a Shanghai university to all of China.

*****

We got off the tram halfway into our planned trek from the graduation ceremony to the Pearl Tower because people were starting to get hungry and we had to switch to a bus anyway. The station where we hopped off was small, almost like a little village in the middle of nowhere. The sketchy yet appealing smells of a street market wafted through the tiny plaza. I spotted a Lawson and wanted to head in real quick and just grab a rice ball (Japanese: onigiri), but some of my friends had other ideas.

“Let’s go get pizza!”

I looked at them. Seriously? You’ve got all this wonderful Chinese food around, and you want to eat pizza. Well, you can go ahead and do that — I’m not going to say you can’t. But I don’t want any, thanks. Not to mention it’s ridiculously expensive.

Yet somehow I managed to get shuffled along into a pizza shop.

We took a seat, contemplating which size pizza we should get. The people I was with were leaning toward a 2-3 person pizza and a drink to share. The total for that meal would have been just short of 70 yuan.

70 yuan. We were going to split it three ways, so that’s around 23 yuan per person. No way, I said to myself. Thankfully, the waiter was taking so long that we had to duck out anyway, as we’d agreed to meet back at a certain place in about 15 minutes. The others went to get Subway, and I turned in to the Lawson and grabbed my onigiri. 2.5 yuan. Let me say that again — for a full meal, 2.5 yuan. And everyone else was willing to spend 23 on a tiny pizza?

Well, that’s up to them. But I’m not about that life.

When I asked why they didn’t want any of the superb selection of Chinese food around us, they said simply, “I’ve eaten Chinese every day!”

That’s because you’re in China. Did you expect something else?

*****

I held on to the silver bar on the metro car, contemplating the lunch situation earlier. It’s not any of my business what people choose to eat. Whatever floats your boat. I just wonder, as I did in the airport at the beginning of our trip, what sort of food, culture, and life opportunities people were expecting when they decided to leave America. After all, Americans are curiously strange sorts of people when it comes to branching out, I think. Myself included.

As the metro chugged along, jostling from side to side, I noticed a young Chinese couple in the seats closest to one of the doors. The boy held an iPhone out in front of them, and they were sharing a pair of earbuds. Being the creeper that I am, I sneaked a peek at what they were watching.

You’re kidding me. One of my favorite movies of all time!

That’s right — they were watching 蛍日の森へ Hotarubi no Mori e, To the Forest of the Firefly Lights. It’s a short Japanese movie, only about 45 minutes, about a boy raised by the spirits of the forest who meets a young human girl and wants to help her, as she is lost. However, because he was raised by spirits, he cannot touch humans or he will die. Whatever shall he do?

You should totally check out the movie here:

So I looked on, a smile on my face as I watched the enchanting story alongside two people I had never met.

*****

We finished our trek to the Pearl Tower, and it was quite a sight to see up close.

However, having been up to the top of the Sky Tower in New Zealand and other such buildings, I declined to go with everyone else to the top. At 400 yuan for a trip up to the highest pearl, the smoggy Shanghai view wasn’t worth it. The dirty air had already sucked the reflective pink color out of the iridescent pearls even as I stood there watching.

Instead, I broke off from the group and traveled by myself. I decided to visit Jing’An Temple (and the park nearby). Literally “temple of peace and tranquility,” the temple is also sometimes known as the “gold temple” for its appearance — the inner walls and buildings seem to be gilded in pure, liquid gold.

I walked the distance around the outside, where a small festival was taking place to celebrate the coming of the New Year, the year of the horse. Abstract, strobing, mind-boggling patterns of checkered red and white and gold plastered every wall, curtain, and cart that I could see. It was as if I’d fallen through the rabbit hole. Little trees danced in gilded pots at the top of psychedelic stairs, and I forgot for a moment that I was in China and not in Wonderland.

The park next to the temple was equally eye-catching but not nearly so kaleidoscopic. The scenic, green area awash in the pinks and oranges of sunset was a welcome rest on both the mind and the body.

After I’d walked lazily through the park, I returned to the temple and followed a tunnel underneath its golden outer ramparts into a metro entrance. At the bottom of the stairs, a man with no eyes and no nose sat huddled in a blue, fraying jacket, singing in an almost inaudible off-key vibrato that echoed down the abandoned tunnel.