An American Abroad
I took advantage of a day off to go to El Jem, a town about an hour south of Sousse by train. The main attraction there is a very well preserved Roman amphitheater from the third century BCE. But the surprise for me was the town around the ruins, a small settlement with nice cafes and antique shops. It looked like this:
I was here:
I was pleased, but not surprised, to read just now that Siem Reap, Cambodia, was rated the seventh friendliest city in the world by Conde Nast Traveler.
When I was there in late April, I was so impressed with place that I wrote “After a few days there, I left thinking that even if Angkor was not just a tuk tuk ride away, Siem Reap would be a fine place to visit or to live.” Nice to see that the posh readers of Conde Nast think so too.
After my unexpectedly costly journey from Tunis to Sousse, I woke up Saturday morning determined to look at my new hometown through fresh eyes.
This is what I saw.
Here’s the view from my hotel room balcony. Note the church — an unexpected find in this Muslim country.
As I walked out of the hotel lobby, this was my view of the Mediterranean Sea at the end of the street.
The beach is not a Beautiful People’s playground; it’s much more of a local family scene. The sand is fine and the water is clear and unimaginably blue.
I made my first foray into the medina, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, a huge walled city-within-a-city.
I didn’t explore ten percent of it, but I’m sure I’ll be back often.
I was here:
My travel luck ran out last Friday on the train from Tunis to Sousse.
It was six in the morning and I was jet-lagged, insufficiently caffeinated, and burdened by two heavy suitcases, a heavy leather duffel, and a bulging nylon shoulder bag.
As I struggled to board the train, a fellow pushed by me. Then he feigned confusion, turned around, and pushed by me again. And again.
My only thought at that time was “what a rude idiot.” It never even occurred to me that he was actually a smart thief.
It wasn’t until I got to my seat and saw a zippered compartment of my shoulder bag open that I realized what had happened: I’d been robbed of an cash envelope that had been in my bag.
The only other time I was ever robbed while traveling was in Bath, England, about 25 years ago, at a very posh B&B. I suppose I can bear it once every quarter century.
I think of my loss now as tuition in the College of Hard Knocks & Unmindfulness. Last Friday, though, I was pretty miserable. And my first look at Sousse was colored by the loss of my hard-earned cash. I thought seriously of turning around and heading back to the US or to China.
I’ve since recovered most of my usual good humor and curiosity about Tunisia and the world around me. But in my last 14 months of travel to ten different countries, I have never felt so low.
On the evening of Wednesday August 6, I boarded a 767 in Detroit and flew east into the darkness. Eight hours later I landed in Rome and it was mid-morning. I had forgotten about the southern European custom of applauding when a plane lands.
I loved hearing Italian spoken and watching the people as I waited for my flight to Tunis, where I’ll be staying one night before heading to my new home in Sousse. One hour after I boarded that flight, I stepped off the jet stairs onto African ground for the first time in my life.
I chatted with my cab driver in French on the way to the hotel, recalling phrases I’ve heard in French movies and that I’d practiced in French classes so long ago. I was able to communicate pretty well in that language, though due to my recent year in China I said xiexie instead of merci and dui instead of oui. The French spoken with a Tunisian accent seems devoid of inner R’s, e.g., “centrale” is pronounced “centale.”
After a nap, I went out walking. My hotel is near Place d’Afrique, a nice-looking park on Rue de Palestine. I was here:
The neighborhood is a mix of embassies, foreign institutes, and auto repair shops. The architecture is a mix of decaying French colonial buildings, North African buildings with elaborate tilework in their foyers and fancy metal gates at their doors, and even some Art Deco.
On nearby Rue Jerusalem, there is a trolley line and an old (Greek Orthodox?) church:
Speaking of religion, I noted that women who wear a headscarf are in the minority here. It’ll be interesting to see how that varies once I get out of the capital city.
I chatted with a few people, and every Tunisian I talked to said not to trust Tunisians. The cretin’s paradox again. But so far, nothing has gone amiss.
Tomorrow morning I’ll get up very early and take a train to Sousse. There I hope to meet my new colleagues and find a place to live.
As I begin this new chapter, I’ve appreciated all the encouraging emails, texts, tweets, comments, and Facebook posts I’ve gotten from friends and strangers alike. Keep those cards and letters coming.
The two highlights of my trip to Shanghai were walking through the neighborhood around Tianzifang Street and seeing my old friends and students.
It can be hard in Shanghai — and elsewhere in China — to find older buildings that have been well-preserved and are still in use. China is currently building new museums by the hundreds, and while I enjoy museums, I enjoy living history even more. I found my fix on Tianzifang Street, a neighborhood in the former French Concession of two-story red brick buildings, picturesque alleys, and vintage electrical wiring (which often doubles as clothes line).
The area is now given over to artists, boutiques, craft shops, and comfortable bars and restaurants, but it is still a residential area too. It reminds me of an Asian version of parts of Boston such as Back Bay, the South End, or Beacon Hill. Yes, it’s heavily touristed (much as those Boston sites are), but even the groups of out-of-town Chinese following their flag-bearers through the alleyways there couldn’t kill the essential charm of the place for me.
My final day in Asia was spent with the people who inspired me to go live in China: Wu Gang, Wang Wei, and their son Max. When they lived in the Toledo area, I tutored them in English once or twice a week. Soon I felt like an adopted member of their family. They were warm, fun, smart, thoughtful, and caring. Watching them successfully adjust to the shock of moving from Shanghai to Haskins, Ohio gave me the idea and the courage to do something similar. It was fitting, then, that seeing them again was the capstone of my thirteen months in Asia.
Unfortunately, Wang Wei was not feeling well during my visit, but her absence from the pictures I took does not connote an absence from my heart.
Wu Gang and Max took me to the Bund, the row of colonial-era banks, shipping companies, law firms, and import/export houses that made Shanghai into one of the largest commercial and financial centers in the world. On a misty, rainy evening, we walked along an esplanade by the bank of the Huangpu River. To our left were the historic buildings of the Bund.
To our right and across the river lay Pudong, where so many of the now-iconic contemporary buildings of Shanghai touch the clouds.
It was a magical moment. The experience of walking with friends on my last night in China and seeing the past glories of the Bund to my left, the contemporary dynamism of Pudong to my right, and ships on the river heading out into the big wide world seemed to sum up my life at that moment.
Thirty six hours later, I touched down in Detroit for a brief return to the U.S. before heading to Tunisia, where I will be living for the next year.
Stay tuned . . . .
Once I got settled in Shanghai, I set out to explore. To do that, I first had to navigate the Shanghai subway system. As you can see from the map below, it’s so simple even a laowai could do it:
There were some strange and interesting ads in the subway:
One of my first stops was the Dongtai Road antiques market. Lots of small shops, many selling reproductions of varying quality, but some selling some nice vintage treasures.
I then set out for Nanjing Road, Shanghai’s most famous shopping street. Shopping really isn’t my thing, but it was cool seeing all the people and the store window displays. My overall experience there, though, was marred by the many pimps who accosted me every fifty feet. I have no problem with hookers themselves (who are just out to make an honest buck), but pimps repel me. Some of them were very aggressive and would not leave me alone. I lost patience with one particular pest and told him I’d break his nose if he didn’t go away. I’m not sure he understood my exact words, but he got the gist of the message, swore at me, and scuttled off.
Other pimps there were very slick and entrepreneurial. One thrust his card into my hands; it was the first pimp card I’d ever seen with a mission statement: “Our aim is to think of what your think anxious of what your worry.” Remove the Chinglish and this could be the mission statement of any number of businesses, colleges, or professional practices.
I cut my visit to Nanjing Road short and headed back to my hotel. This is how the city looked in the afternoon from my 23rd story room:
My friends told me that this was actually one of the less smoggy days.
After saying goodbye to Spencer, I flew from Hanoi to back Kunming. The reason for this zig-zag was because I had stored my big luggage — about a hundred pounds worth — with my friend Martin while I traveled in Vietnam. Who wants to be encumbered by that much stuff unless and until it’s absolutely necessary?
I’d decided to close out my thirteen months in Asia with a visit to Shanghai to see old friends Wu Gang and Wang Wei and their son, Max. I had tutored them when they lived in the Toledo area, but now they had returned to Shanghai and I wanted very much to see them. I’d also decided to make the 2,375 kilometer (1,475 mile) journey by train, a journey comparable in length to going from Boston to New Orleans. The trip took about 38 hours.
This did not prove to be one of my better decisions.
I generally like train travel. It’s good enforced down-time. I’ve ridden the Lakeshore Limited from Toledo to Boston many times and enjoyed the restful freedom to read, write, nap, listen to music, watch the world roll by, and hang out with other travelers in the club car. I was picturing something like that when I reserved my Chinese train ticket.
When I got to the Kunming station, laden with 120 pounds of luggage, I found a chaotic scene. New security measures erected in the aftermath of the horrific terror attack there back in March have created a confusing gauntlet of checkpoints and unmarked temporary ticket windows. I queued up and went through airport-style security (which was more theater than anything else) outside the station. I was then funneled to a new outdoor ticket counter. After a wait in line of maybe 20 minutes, two women with bullhorns came over and announced that since it was now 6:00, these windows would be closing. The people lined up around me went nuts, angrily rushing the window, yelling at the clerks, and rudely thrusting money at them. It wasn’t any threat to my well-being, but it was pretty dispiriting to see people acting like this. I made it up to the front of the queue and the poor clerk there, seeing I was a laowai, took pity on me and issued my ticket after the official closing time.
I then went to check my two big 50-pound suitcases. I assumed (there’s that mistake again) that the procedure would be as simple as it is in the US. Nope. Finding out where to go was difficult; it seems that most of the personnel at the station had never heard of the idea of checking bags. Finally a porter led me to a dingy little storefront half a block from the station. This was a shipping office, but the clerk there also acted as if she had never heard of someone wanting to check luggage before. It took multiple and lengthy conversations via mobile phone with a friend of mine who speaks Chinese to finally get it worked out–and it cost me an additional ¥377. Furthermore, I was told that the luggage would not be going on my train with me, but would be on another train and would arrive a day after I did. I left doubting that I’d never see my bags again.
Finding the right place to wait for my train was also difficult, with the usual issues of different officials saying different things. (For an official to say “I don’t know” is to lose face, but to simply lie about knowing something and direct you to the wrong place is acceptable.) During my wait of several hours, I saw many Chinese people stocking up on food to take on the train. I told myself I didn’t want to burden myself further with food, and that I would simply buy it on the train. Another error.
When the train boarded, I found my compartment, a “soft sleeper” that contains four bunks, two up and two down. I was assigned one of the upper berths. While the bunk as actually long enough for me to stretch out comfortably, there was not enough headroom to allow me to sit up. This meant that I had to ride most of the way prone — not a good position for reading, writing or chatting. My compartment mates on the lower berths kindly allowed me to sit on their bunks, but I felt like I was intruding on their space. This is probably a very Western way of looking at things, but it’s the way I’m wired.
After a couple hours, I crawled into my upper berth and fell asleep quickly.
I woke in the middle of the night with a painful headache and a queasy stomach. I’d actually eaten very little in the previous 24 hours, but something wasn’t sitting well with me. I went to the already-reeking bathroom a couple times where the odor of amoniated piss made me feel more nauseated. By morning I was throwing up and had a brutal headache.
My compartment-mates and the conductor were very kind to me. The conductor opened her med kit and fished out some herbal pills made of some kind of mint leaves. At her prescription, I took four of these. My stomach did settle about 90 minutes after that, though whether it was due to the pills or just the effects of time I cannot tell. My head still throbbed, and one of my compartment mates gave me some metholated ointment to put on my temples. I don’t think that did jack for my headache, but his concern and desire to help were genuine. Still, I spent most of Tuesday in the hallway of the sleeper car sitting on a little jump seat with my head resting against a support bar as people squeezed by me. It was pretty sub-optimal.
I missed dinner and the dining car was closed, but the helpful conductor snuck me some bread, saying that she knew that Westerners like bread and that I really should eat something.
Wednesday morning I woke up starving and craving caffeine. (I think that caffeine withdrawal was in large part responsible for my symptoms. I guess I am an addict. Going cold-turkey’s a bitch.) I then discovered that the dining car was essentially out of food. At one stop, though, I left the train (technically not permitted, but I didn’t care) and quickly bought a pack of ramen noodles from a vendor on the platform. I mixed this with hot water and had my first real food in 48 hours.
We got into Shanghai on time and I happily rendezvoused with my good friend Wu Gang. With his help, I went looking for my luggage. To my surprise, I’d received a call en route saying that my luggage had actually gotten to Shanghai ahead of me. Finding it, however, proved difficult. Again, no one seemed to know where the luggage office was. Finally one knowledgeable worker directed me down the street from the station to another dingy office staffed by four people, three of whom were sleeping at 4:00 in the afternoon. It took a couple of phone calls to the shipping office back in Kunming, however, to determine that while my luggage was indeed in Shanghai, it wasn’t at this office. They did, however, promise to have it delivered there in 30 minutes. And they were better than their word; I had the suitcases 15 minutes later. But the whole luggage tango was nerve-wracking with its lack of clear information and its ad hoc feel.
I still like trains and train travel. Certainly if I hadn’t gotten sick I would have a much better memory of the experience. And to be honest, nothing terrible happened. In my year in Asia, I’ve traveled to eight different countries (China, Hong Kong, Thailand, Bangladesh, Cambodia, Laos, Malaysia, and Vietnam) and dozens of towns inside China and never had a real travel problem. So if an uncomfortable 38-hour train ride and a stomach bug were the worst things to befall me, I was actually pretty lucky.
Although I’m now back in the U.S. for a brief visit, I am still reliving the final week of my life in Asia through pictures and notes.
Spencer and I visited Halong Bay on our final full day in Vietnam. We got up early to take a four-hour bus ride from Hanoi. Once at the docks, we boarded a launch and went out for a four hour tour. The weather was overcast and it sprinkled a few times.
“Ha long” means descending dragon, and out in the bay it’s easy to see why the place was so named. There are hundreds of rock formations protruding from the water which do indeed look like the spikes on a dragon’s back.
Many of the rock formations had caves in them, some big enough to row a boat through.
We stopped at a floating village, a settlement of houseboats that makes its living by fishing and catering to the tourist trade.
The yellow building in the photo below is the floating village’s schoolhouse.
Spencer and I borrowed a kayak and paddled around the village, watching the fishermen and taking in the amazing scenery.
After reboarding the launch, we sailed back to port. The bay was crowded with other tourist boats — so much so that it detracted from the overall experience. I also noted to my dismay that although the bay waters are clear, there is a lot of trash in them, mostly light plastics, cigarette butts, and litter. It’s the classic dilemma faced by locales with great natural beauty: everyone wants to see it, which when a certain critical mass is reached tends to despoil the very environment that attracts people there.
Halong Bay is huge and four hours was not nearly enough time to take it all in. But it was all the time we had. Someday I’ll return. We were here:
The next day we said goodbye to Vietnam. I almost always wish for more time everywhere I travel, but in Vietnam I felt it strongly. It’s a beautiful country with a graceful and gracious people. It seems incomprehensible to me that in my lifetime my country sought to “bomb them back to the stone age.”
Hanoi’s history as a French colonial capital is still very much in evidence. There are gracious tree-lined boulevards fronted by beautiful old mansions.
There are still some colonial commercial buildings, now sandwiched in between more modern structures, and even some Art Deco touches.
Near a striking mustard-colored church, various sidewalk vendors congregate and sit calmly waiting for customers.
There are all kinds of cages, too.
On our last night in Hanoi, we went to a bar noted for making pho cocktails. The production of this drink is quite elaborately pyrotechnical.
My overall impression of Hanoi was of an artful, elegant, somewhat formal city. I loved the French/Vietnamese aesthetic. And I was struck — both in Hanoi and Hoi An — by the friendliness of the people and the high level of personal service provided by hoteliers, waiters, and other employees of the tourism industry. Given how much carnage we Americans visited on this country, such attitudes were especially surprising and inspirational to me.
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