Home School Observations

March 31, 1994

A curious sign greets us as we are about to board the plane for our flight from Beijing to Shanghai. “Welcome to Beijing Again” can be seen in several locations in the departure area. In the airport bathroom we are told to “timely rinse after using.”

Our home for two days in Shanghai is the Peace Hotel, “the most famous hotel in the world.” It is charming in its art deco details, complete with marble floors. Maria and I have a room on the fourth floor. We plan to not see any of the group members until it is time to leave for the flight back to Japan. From our hotel room window we can see the Bund and the Huangpu River. We can hear the horns of the large boats on the river.

The afternoon is spent at the Jade Buddha Temple. Maria and I are suffering from “Too Many Buddhas Syndrome” and cut our visit short.

April 1, 1994

Early morning Shanghai is already awake, moving at a fast pace. I notice people running to squeeze onto an already overloaded bus. Barges and ships of every size make their way down the Huangpu. The Bund is teeming with cars, buses, and bicycles. Horns honk constantly. A double chorus line of blue, gray, and brown-coated, white-gloved people practice Tai-chi. Their slow, deliberate movements are a stark contrast to the commuter madness all around. A boat coming upriver gives a long, loud low-pitch blast on its horn. It is a gray day.

Maria and I eat breakfast in the Peace Hotel restaurant, at a table overlooking the lobby. I somehow feel special and even imagine myself important in such luxurious surroundings. We relish the day ahead, a whole unscheduled day to explore Shanghai. We start off with a walk down the Bund. People are friendly, with several eager to try out their English conversation skills.

We decide to revisit Yu Garden and drink some Dragon Well tea at Wuxing Ting tea house in the middle of the pond. The server pours our tea from silver tea pots a foot above our tea glasses, which are clear and have no handles. The tea leaves are long and take up the bottom half of the glass.

After tea we set off down a side street to enjoy the bustling city life. We pass shops selling silk and cashmere. I buy a purple rain poncho designed for bicycling, and a cassette tape of the most popular pop singer, Emil.

Two children notice us, say hello, and smile. I pull out my dwindling supply of stickers and hold out a strip to each of them. They accept eagerly, and seem quite excited to be getting a present. I hold up my camera, point to it, and ask, “Okay?” The short-haired girl looks straight at me and enthusiastically answers, “Oh, yes!” I frame and quickly snap.

We wander around side streets window shopping until we are hopelessly lost. We hail a taxi back to the Peace Hotel. Dinner is at Shanghai’s Gong De Lin. It is crowded in the restaurant and we share a table with a Chinese couple who speak excellent English and are happy to help us order from the all-Chinese menu. Our last dinner in China…it is sad to think this way.

April 2, 1994

After breakfast at the Peace Hotel, we fly back to Nagoya. On the bus to the airport our Shanghai guide “Maggie” sings “You Are My Sunshine.” I am sad to leave China. China has given me much. How can I ever repay her?

Tags: Shanghai, Bund, Peace Hotel, Tai Chi, Jade Buddha Temple, China

March 30, 1994 (cont’d)

After lunch we taxi to the White Cloud Temple. It is Daoist, built in the 8th century, and every bit as grand as Yong He Gong. As we walk around the temple, I am charmed by the blue-robed monks with their long hair in a bun on top of their heads, white leg coverings, and black cloth shoes. Some of the blue robes have have sleeves so long and wide that no hands can be seen.

The sound of drums, flute, gong and harp draw us into a huge, long building. Eight red-capped monks kneel and chant before statues. Scripture books lay before them, white text on black background. More monks enter with cymball, gong, flute, lute. The tempo of the chanting increases to match the ever-quickening pace of the drumbeats. Faster, faster, then - silence. I gasp slightly in surprise.

Several more musicians enter the hall and take seats. It is now an orchestra. Cymbal and gong begin, then chanting resumes, then other instruments follow. The red-capped monks rise slowly as they sing. The orchestra’s tempo graduallly increases. the flute dominates and carries the melody. Black cloth shoes tap out the steady beat. Faster, faster! I notice a pair of bright red sneakers peeking out from a blue robe.

The chanting stops but the instruments continue their upbeat melody. The red-capped monks drop to their knees, then bow, then rise to a standing position. They repeat this two more times. Once again the joyous music comes to an abrupt halt. Strings give a final strum and the gong reverbates and echoes in the hall. All the monks calmly rise and walk out of the hall.

Maria and I feel fortunate to have been in the hall at the right time! Cassette tapes of the White Cloud Temple Orchestra are for sale and we buy the set. On our way out we join the other tourists throwing coins at the bell under the bridge, hoping to be skillful enough to hit the bell and receive a lifetime of good luck in return.

It is our last evening in Beijing, a city we did not think we would fall in love with! We decide to return to the vegan restaurant Gong De Lin to celebrate a wonderful day in the city.

On our way to dinner we see an interesting billboard: “A More Open China is Waiting For You.” Want to meet me at the “California Beef Noodle King USA” restaurant? What will we order at “Mr. Beef Seafood Restaurant?”

We pack our suitcases sadly. Beijing has been very wonderful.

Tags: White Cloud temple, Daoist, Beijing, China, chanting

This post is dedicated to Lau San Dan Ba, in honor of the strength of all Tibetan Buddhist monks who have sacrificed their safety for the benefit of their religious and cultural freedom. I am thinking of you now, and hoping you and your family are safe. May the protective arms of the universe embrace you and your friends.

March 30, 1994

It is another sunny and beautiful spring-like day. Beijing, you are so good to us! Off we set on another unscheduled day, beside ourselves with happiness. Beijing is ours for the whole day! We bravely take the subway, against our guide’s advice, four stops to reach Yong He Gong, called the Lama Temple. The subway cars are old and dirty. At 10am they are as crowded as in a Tokyo rush hour.

Our plan to walk around the temple for one hour becomes thwarted as we become entranced by the beauty of this place. One hour becomes two, then three. An old man in a brown robe shuffles back and forth along the stone floor. He chants as he rubs his long necklace of prayer beads. He caresses the orange tassel. Large wood prayer wheels turn, incense is lit, heads touch the floor three times in deep bows before the statues of Buddha and the founder of Yellow Hat sect of Tibetan Buddhism, Tsongkhapa.

The old man taps me on the shoulder and motions to the English sign on the building’s front wall. He smiles widely. I politely read the broken English, jot down a few notes, and then return to the hall to continue observing and writing. I attract a crowd with my little notebook. I feel many pairs of eyes staring at my writing. People are not shy about their curiosity. No sideways, surreptitious glances here. They stick their heads right next to mine and look over my shoulder. I return to the courtyard in an attempt to escape the stares. The old monk is still there.

The old monk asks, “Do you believe it? If you believe it, he can help you.” Ah, the old hard sell, reminiscent of my former life as a proselytizing Christian. God is male, and if you only believe in him, your life will go as it should. I smile at the old monk, noticing his kind eyes, his long, thin graying beard, his mustache, his orange belt and brown cap. Someone throws some twigs in an incense burner and bright orange flames dance and leap, curling upward and sideways.

Maria and I say hello to a group of young students dressed in identical blue pants and jackets. I judge them to be junior high school students on a class trip, and that turns out to be true. We would talk longer but they must catch up with the rest of the class. They are not as shy as my Japanese students. Maria snaps a photo of me with the girls, and I promise to send copies to them at their school. One of the girls writes down the address of Qian Jin Middle School in my notebook.

Maria and I venture into some other buildings. Walls are covered with intricate mandalas of bright red, orange, green blue and gold. Buddhas sit on red cushions, legs crossed, holding urns. Huge gold lotus petals stand behind them, vying for attention. It is sensory overload. I reach for my notebook in an attempt to etch some images into my memory. Again I attract a crowd. Curious onlookers stare at each word. I wonder if they can read it.

“What are you writing?” I am startled by a woman’s voice. “I am trying to capture my impressions of this beautiful place,” I answer. “I believe in Buddhism. I have come here to pray for the future,” she replies. “Do you believe?” she repeats the old monk’s question. “No, I am not a Buddhist.” She continues her inquisition. “But I think you believe in something, some kind of God.” My response comes quickly. “Yes, but my god has no name and is not male.” She doesn’t seem to be offended. “Is your god female?” I pause, searching for a suitable response. “My god is neither.” She thanks me for talking with her.

I marvel at the conversation. Nothing like that has ever occurred in Japan, not once, at the dozens of temples and shrines I have visited. Why are the Japanese people so much more reluctant to speak the English they have been taught in school? Is it truly due to shyness, as they uniformly declare?

As we leave the Tower of Infinite Happiness, a monk I had not noticed begins to speak to us. “Hello, where are you from?” We are pleasantly surprised. We explain we are from the USA, but currently living in Japan and teaching English there. Maria and I try our hand at finding out about him. Lau San Dan Ba is twenty six and has been a monk since age fourteen. He is due to return to his temple in Lhasa next year after seven years in Beijing. His parents farm wheat in Lhasa.

He smiles continuously as he speaks. His voice is soft and gentle.

We ask him about his daily life at Yong He Gong Lamasary. His soft, gentle voice continues, smiling all the while. He rises at five for prayer until breakfast at seven. Work begins at nine, and one of his tasks is to welcome tourists, talk to them, and ask them to not use cameras inside the buildings. Lunch is at eleven, a simple meal of rice, curry and porridge, similar to breakfast. Monks here eat beef and poultry but not fish. He explains he works four hours a day, in addition to praying and reading scriptures. In his free time he watches television, goes to see movies (in street clothes), and goes shopping. His smile never seems to leave his face.

I ask him if he can have a girlfriend. “No, no girlfriends,” he replies, still smiling. “Japanese Zen Buddhist monks can marry,” he informs us. “They are very happy, I think.”

We ask permission to snap his photo. I want to remember that smile. We leave the Lamasary very happy, feeling very lucky to have had our own private interview with a Tibetan Buddhist monk.

Tags: Yong He Gong, Beijing, lamasary, Tibet, Lhasa, China, Buddhism, Yellow Hat sect, Lau San Dan Ba, Qian Jin Middle School, Tsongkhapa

March 29, 1994

Today is our first free day of our group tour of China. All other members of the tour have made their own plans, dividing naturally into small groups. To say they are not a friendly bunch is a gross understatement. Maria and I have each other. It is enough.

What a pleasure to be free of schedules and bus rides and endless speeches in monotone, broken English. We start off on foot, then hail a pedicab. At the Foreign Languages Bookstore there is a very polite sign begging our patience in the midst of their remodeling: “Fit-Up Troubles — Please Understand.” We rent bicycles at a hotel and head for Beihai Park. We have never been in the midst of so many bicycles before. It is fun to be just another fish in the stream. We ride fifteen abreast, in a slow and easy pace. We are swept along by the crowd.

I am amazed at how bicycles do the work of small trucks. They are loaded up and overhang with every kind of material imaginable. Children are carried on wicker bicycle carriers.

I peer down neighborhood alleys. Bicycles and people are everywhere. Laundry hangs to dry on long poles protruding from high balconies. Food is being cooked on steel drum stoves on sidewalks. I notice tall stacks of charcoal in disc shape.

At Beihai Park we eat lunch outside by the lakeside. We have a good view of the White Dagoba, looking ever so much like a giant white concrete bottle of perfume atop a hill. We fritter the day away, giddy with joy at being in this place, and proud of ourselves for ignoring the advice of the tour guide, who advised us all to not bicycle nor ride trains around Beijing. We have been urged those things are too dangerous, and we are to use only taxis.

In the evening we hire a taxi to take us to one of Beijing’s most popular pure vegetarian restaurants, Gong De Lin. We have the address. The taxi driver feigns ignorance, pretends to be lost, drives us around in circles for more than one hour. We are prepared to pay any amount of money to just get out of the cab! We finally arrive at the restaurant one hour before closing. We are cursing not too softly as we pay the taxi driver.

But Gong De Lin calms us down. Who could not be enamored of a restaurant with menu items such as ‘Chicken Cutlets in the Shape of a Lantern’ or ‘The Fire is Singeing the Snow-Capped Mountains?’ This is ‘mock’ dining at its finest. Mushrooms, potatoes, and tofu imitate the texture and color of chicken, fish, and meat. We order more than we can ever hope to finish.

Tags: Beijing, China, vegan, vegetarian, Gong De Lin, Bei Hai Park, White Dagoba, bicycles

March 28, 1994

The Beijing International Hotel is to be our “home” for five nights. We are on the 24th floor, high above the din of traffic and round-the-clock construction. Cranes and welders work straight through the night. Maria and I decorate our room with the souvenirs we have collected thus far. Terra Cotta warriors guard our television, a scroll hangs on the wall, the bamboo-covered porcelain tea set graces the ‘coffee table.’ We look out the window and gaze down upon Dongchang’an Avenue. We try to visualize the tanks rolling down this street in 1989, heading for Tian’anmen Square.

The huge air-brush portrait of Mao Tse-Tung hangs in the center of Meridian Gate. He looks out over us as we meander around the largest square in the world.

The Forbidden City is so large that a permanent restoration team circulates through the nine thousand rooms in its eight hundred buildings, repairing and repainting. We are but one group in hundreds being told the grizzly details of the lives of the eunuchs and concubines. I guard my heart and concentrate on architectural details. Gold ceramic tile roofs and maroon walls dance before my eyes in overlapping layers. Marble bridges span the ‘Golden Stream.’ The largest building, the Hall of Supreme Harmony, houses the Dragon Throne.

Imagine the scene: the Emperor on his throne, with thick veils of incense masking the hall. The entire court prostrated before the throne, with all foreheads touching the floor nine times in supplication to the god-king-emperor. The sound of gongs fills the air.

The Hall of Middle Harmony and the Hall of Preserving Harmony are next, and after this, all the buildings begin to look alike. It all becomes a wondrous conglomerate of gold-tiled roofs, dragon-painted wood beams, maroon walls, and blue and green decorative painting. The names of the buildings strike me as pompous: Palace of Heavenly Purity, Palace of Earthly Tranquility, Thousand Autumns Pavilion, Hall of the Cultivation of Character, and Palace of the Eternal Springs!

The Temple of Heaven has become the symbol of Beijing. I gawk at the amazing coffered ceiling inside the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests, a round building on a square base. Gold dragons fly against a backdrop of red, green, blue and gold. Scriptures, not Buddhas, stand on pedestals, gold writing on a black background. Other pedestals hold candles,urns, and gold vases with marble flowers on orange stems. Pigs in troughs face a gold screen and a gold throne surrounded by gold lanterns with blue glass. There is so much to see. After a few hours it all begins to blend into one big collage of colors and dragons.

It is a beautiful, warm spring day. A gentle breeze holds up the dozens of kites being flown by parents and children along the walkways. My heart is light and happy. It feels so freeing to be in such a huge place.

My camera frames Maria as she steps up onto the center of the Round Altar, looks skyward, and reaches outstretched arms upward. People gawk. I smile and shoot.

Tags: Forbidden City, eunuchs, concubines, Beijing, China, Temple of Heaven, Tian’anmen Square