I had plans for the day. I was on a mission. I worked on homework for the morrow. I steeled my nerves and prepared my camera. I watered my steed. I was riding south. I had had enough of simply hearing about the protests that happened every Sunday afternoon near Xidan. I was going to see for myself.
Before I could ride to see these events firsthand, I needed to get something to eat. I stopped at the noodle restaurant near the school (not Ma Lan). I’m sure I could translate the name, or maybe even come up with a creative name for the restaurant if I had something to go off of, but the truth of the matter is that I have no idea what this restaurant is called. Their noodles are good, though, and knowing the name of the establishment from which they emerge is of little importance to me. I was seated at a table simultaneously occupied by another young fellow such as myself, due to the heavy traffic in the restaurant and the lack of free tables.
He stared at me the majority of the time that he ate his noodles. A less hardy version of myself (perhaps even one that landed in Beijing weeks ago) would have been unnerved by this behavior, but not I. I simply stared back or looked around the rest of the people resting in the restaurant. When my noodles were served, his were in his stomach, and my tablemate decided that thist was an opportune time to strike up conversation with me. (I don’t know why we couldn’t have begun this conversation earlier, but oh well.) Turns out that he lives in the neighborhood and works as a software designer (or graphic designer) for one of the neighboring firms. Somehow we got on the conversation of music. We both play guitars, it turns out, and we both think that getting a high quality guitar in China costs way more than it is worth. He came over to the States to visit our Guitar Center, buying a 1979 Les Paul so that he can jam out to his favorite metal tunes. I would like to interject that I hope wherever he went in the States has better Guitar Centers than Alabama. Then, as soon as the conversation began, he was out the door. “I have to meet someone.” Interesting.
I rode on through the Beijing city. I passed glut upon glut of capitalism, everything covered in foil and decorated with gaudy figurines. By the way, does anyone need be to bring them a 4-foot rabbit or duck carrying a basket? I can make that happen.
As I wound my way towards Xidan, I began to grow nervous. I had heard too many stories – interviews by the police, street side interrogations, water hoses, locking people in stores, beating up protestors, registering and confiscation of cameras… What would happen today? I ditched the bike (better to travel by foot and blend in, I thought), and inched my way towards what I perceived to be the epicenter of protesting and destruction. What did I see on those ravaged streets of Beijing? What noble cause were the people rising up and supporting? Which evil, corrupt official was going to meet his untimely end at the hands of thee dissidents?
…The suspense is killing me too…
Nothing.
All I saw were contented-looking couples and college-aged kids being consumers – eating ice cream, carry shopping bags from the expensive stores lining the streets, chatting, burning cell phone minutes, hopelessly trying to arrange dates with the opposite sex, and generally being content Beijing people. What was the matter with these people? What had happened? I don’t know, but they did seem a lot more satisfied with their material and political life than the last time that I heard of them. So what should one do in a situation such as this? I decided to take a look around.
I took my investigation underground. I then realized that I had entered the fabled underground shopping market of the Xidan subway station. It was much like all of the other markets in China – everything was fake, everyone yelled at you, and the prices bordered on the obscene. After being in the market for about ten minutes, I’d say, I was about to burn alive. The market had to have been 90 degrees, and I was wearing long sleeves and cords. I went topside.
By this time, I was getting a little claustrophobic. There were people everywhere; no one could walk without stepping on someone. Cars couldn’t move, and doing as cars in Beijing do when they can’t move, they began a chorus of honking, in hopes that the excess noise might propel them down the street at a faster rate. Speaking from experience, this rarely works, and neither did it work today. I was racking my brain about Xidan, things that I knew, things to see.
I looked around for the great Xidan bookstore, reportedly the largest in Beijing. I thought, surely there wouldn’t be that many people in abookstore on a Sunday. I was wrong. I fought and pushed my way through the dismal English section, stepped on a camouflaged girl sitting on the floor, and finally caught some air in the linguistic section. I found an interesting book dissecting the idea of comparisons in the Chinese language, which was very interesting. I also had a desire to make some Chinese food when I went back to the States, and I found a real Chinese cookbook, full of ambiguous directions and measures. It would suit my purposes well. I made these purchases and headed out.
I passed several signs for Hutongs on the way over, and I rode through some of them. Most of the Hutongs were on the verge of being torn down. The public sanitation, electrical, and plumbing departments of this area looked to be a little outdated, and modern neighborhood loomed just over the tops of the ancient houses. Ole people shuffled about in the streets, children played, and others simply stared at me out of doorframes. I did find one group of Children that wanted to practice speaking English with me, and I ended up talking to some old ladies from the neighborhood for about an hour.
Then I rode back and got a bite at the dumpling shack. I studied a little more before hitting the sack.
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