Episode 6:

Sally, Meet Jennifer. Jennifer, Meet Shanghai.

Monday morning came and life started again. The kids were off to school, Rob was off to work, and I was left in our sterile apartment. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t figure out a way to be happy. Everything was either disgusting or mind-numbingly frustrating to me.

Worse, the self discovery that I wasn’t half as open minded as I fancied myself was infuriating. No matter how hard I tried to pry open my mind; I simply couldn’t shake the cultural differences.

I felt like we’d been sentenced to two years in hell and I was a prisoner in PJs and my apartment.

When Chen arrived at 10 that morning with Xiao Li, donned in her standard skin tight jeans, even tighter t-shirt and sparkly two-inch pumps, she mentioned we needed some cleaning supplies. And, since we’d been gone all weekend, the cupboard was bare.

Shit. Looks like a trip to Carrefour is in order.

***

Carrefour is a French retailer similar to US K-Mart or Wal-Mart. Something tells me, though, the Carrefour in France is probably different from the Carrefour in China. In fact, going to Carrefour is more like going to the zoo than the grocery store.

If you make it in the store without getting run over in the parking garage, or choking to death on the exhaust fumes; and you make it past getting a cart without getting run over by a cart or at least your Achilles heel tagged, once you enter the store there are all kinds of wonderful sights, sounds and smells that await you.

Naturally, people are everywhere. Coughing, spitting, peeing (OK, to be fair, mostly only the babies are peeing — usually in trashcans). Shopping cart traffic jams make it nearly impossible to go down the aisles. People stare at every little thing you put in your cart. With no English translations, it is damn near impossible to find anything that you need. Though there is a miniature imported goods section, a box of Cheerios runs about 98 RMB ($14).

If you make it past all of this without leaving out of sheer frustration, next up is the butcher and the produce sections.

The butcher and the produce sections of Carrefour are tied for my least favorite things in China.

First, the butcher. It smells like a cross between rotting meat left over from the 18th Century and a stagnant pond filled with dead fish, turtles and frogs. There are roasted mystery animals — too big to be rabbits, but too small to be pigs — on display, frogs, toads, eels, snakes, and fish of every variety. 6’ x 6’ bins of semi-frozen chickens surrounded by thirty coughing, sneezing people sorting through looking for the perfect bird. The floor is always wet (probably from the frogs trying to escape their fate), filthy and slippery.

Makes me want to be a vegetarian.

On to the produce section: simply put, the problem with the produce section is that it is next to the butcher. The butcher is so foul smelling and so filthy, that it just makes me think the produce is covered in e.coli, salmonella and any other foreign yuck that you just don’t want on your fruit and vegetables. This may be why Driver Jerry gave me the advice one day, “Jenny-fer, always soak your fruit and vegetables in a bleach and water solution for at least 30 minutes before you eat them.”

I understood why after my first visit to the Carrefour.

One time, after a painstaking effort of pushing and shoving to collect all the fruit and vegetables I needed for the week, I stood in line to weigh my produce before I could proceed to the checkout line. Simple enough. After a few minutes I was next in line and the person in front of me was weighing her last bag of fruit. As I stepped up with my bag of “organic” apples in hand, a woman slinked right in front of me, and handed the girl a bunch of leeks the size of a yoga mat. The girl weighed them and the woman went on her merry way.

Confused, I stepped up to the plate again, only to be gypped by another woman with a bag of pears, some garlic and carrots.

What the fuck is going on here?

Finally, it was my turn again, and yet another woman caught sight of the weak western woman and tried to sneak her produce in front of mine. Before she could, I pushed my cart in front of her and said, “Bu Keyi.” (Boo Kuyee — meaning not OK). She actually had the audacity to stretch her body across my cart, reach her arm over to hand the girl her bag of vegetables.

Can you believe it?

I then gave my cart a swift nudge and swatted her bag of vegetables at the same time. She and the bag of peppers went down to the ground and I handed my bag of apples to girl in charge of weighing produce.

***

As Chen and I made our way down Fangdian Lu in our silent bubble, we came across a traffic jam.

Shocker.

I slumped down in my seat, rested my head against the window and stared in awe at the two people who were involved in the accident get out of their cars and scream at each other. By my best calculation, it was a fender-bender at worst, but they were both red in the face, vein-popping mad.

Naturally, a small crowd of pedestrians and cyclists gathered; a symphony of honking horns filled the air.

After a few moments of sitting in gridlock watching these two men argue, out of nowhere the little guy threw a punch that landed square on the tall guy’s chin. His head jerked back and knocked his cigarette out of his mouth.

He took a brief second to cradle his jaw in his hands and collect his thoughts. Spitting mad, the big guy grabbed the little guy by the throat and pushed him up against one of the wounded cars. The little guy’s arms were now flailing, seldom landing a punch.

Good thing the first punch was a good one.

I sat up in my seat to get a better look. Chen didn’t even flinch. He was on high alert looking for an opening to get us en route to our final destination. After all, once a space opened up he knew he only had a split second to get it because there were at least fifty other cars, impatient and vying for the same opening.

After another few short moments, the two men still in the throes of what seemed like a fight to the death, Chen punched it, my head jerked back hitting the headrest and we were outta there.

Once we did our u-turn, I stared at the two men swinging at each other in the rear view mirror until they disappeared from sight.

I’d learn later that when there is a minor car accident in China, the fault is determined right there on the spot and the liable party pulls out his wallet. No harm, no foul. No insurance companies, no police, just two people working it out. As with everything, it seems, it’s all negotiable. I’m not sure what went wrong with this negotiation.

Maybe the little guy’s wife was in the big guy’s car?

Chen and I were back on track but taking a new route the Carrefour. Though I’d never been this way before, it all looked the same: construction site after construction site, new empty strip mall after new empty strip mall, people on bikes and motor scooters weaving in and out of traffic. The Usual. At one point we were stopped at a traffic light and out of the corner of my eye I saw a bright red sign that said, GIANT.

What is this I see?

“Ting, ting, ting,” I said, in an excited, slightly raised voice (Stop, stop, stop). It’s customary in China to say monosyllabic words three times. I’ve never figured this one out 100%, though I’ve heard Chinese people think short words sound weird, so they will say it three times in a row just to sound better.

On my request, Driver Chen pulled over. I jumped out of the car, beside myself with excitement. Mountain bikes, racing bikes, and kiddie bikes lined the sidewalk. I strolled along the display and stumbled upon a little white beachcomber-style bike with a floral embroidered leather seat and hand grips.

Wasting no time at all, I pulled it out of the line-up, ran my fingertips along the over-stuffed leather seat, sat down and took it for a spin.

This is exactly what I need.

Driver Chen walked along side me with caution, like he was my Dad, and had just taken my training wheels off my two-wheeler for the first time.

After my test ride I went inside to make the impulse buy. A quick negotiation in English, it was agreed that I would pay 800 RMB ($120) for the bike if they threw in a bell and a rack for the back wheel. Once paid for, I walked outside to collect my prize, but Chen was arguing with one of the sales guys. He was pressing on the breaks and squeezing the tires like he was checking a peach for ripeness.

Then he hopped up on the bike and took ‘er for a spin. First he checked the breaks to make sure they were in proper working order a few times, and then he shifted all six gears up and down. After the test drive was complete, he checked the tires once more. When Chen was finished with his inspection, he said something in Chinese to one of the workers. The guy disappeared into the shop and moments later reappeared with a WD 40-type substance.

He sprayed it on the breaks and then Chen took ‘er for another spin.

Satisfied this time, Chen picked up the bike and put it in the car.

“Bu you,” I said, customarily waving my hand at him. (Boo Yow, meaning, no want). He gave me a funny look. Then I pulled the bike out of the car, waved good bye to Driver Chen, hopped on my new bike and pedaled my way into the streets of Shanghai.

Carrefour will still be there tomorrow.

As I pedaled away I looked down and noticed some pink and purple writing on the white paint of my new bicycle. I slowed to a near stop so I could read the Vidal Sassoon-like font (‘memba that from the 80s?). It said: “Sally.”

My bike’s name is Sally. “Perfect,” I said to myself, and an uncontrollable smile spread across my face.

A few short moments later it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was and a pang of adrenaline rushedthrough my body. I looked around with eyes wide like a child, put my head down and pedaled.

And so began my love affair with that big and crazy city — Shanghai.