About a week ago, a college student stabbed a bunch of people on the MRT, killing four and injuring 21. He managed to kill the people he attacked first, as they were asleep and had no time to react, but fortunately once people were onto him the fatalities were at an end. Still, scary stuff. Aside from hating the guy for being a murderer, I have to admit I also hate him for screwing with the MRT, which I have always liked a lot, kind of in the same way that I also hated the 9/11 terrorists for adding those connotations to such a wonderful thing as air travel.

The atmosphere in the trains has changed: People are more alert. Fewer sleep. Fewer have headphones on. For the first few days after the attack, the trains were nearly silent, especially as the trains entered a tunnel under a river, for that was where the killer chose to begin his attack, as that gave him the most time between stops. He also wore a red shirt, most likely in order to hide the inevitable blood stains that would alert others to his activities (as if holding a couple of knives didn’t clue people in). Any kind of exclamation or unusual noise would get everyone looking instantly at its source. The media, of course, went insane. That’s what the media here does. The parents of the killer were hounded by the press so much that the mayor of Xinbei City told them to cut it out. Priests were called in to exorcize the train cars. Mountains of flowers piled up outside the station where the train stopped and the killer was caught.

Slowly, things are returning to normal as reports of “copycats” subside. For a while SWAT teams roamed the subways with semi-automatic weapons at their sides. Now, ordinary police officers have replaced them, and substitute national servicemen will most likely follow. People are beginning to sleep in their seats again, wear headphones, talk, etc.

Still, reinforced umbrellas have been selling like hotcakes in  recent days, and self-defense courses are suddenly popular. It was inevitable that something would happen on the MRT eventually, given its popularity and the number of people who take it every day; it’s a shame it had to be this, but Taipei is a big city, with a big heart, and hopefully this terrible incident won’t change that.

There was an interesting design choice at the gallery: The gate to the area folded in at the bottom, and people would periodically trip over it. Nobody threatened to sue or even really complained about it; they just took it for granted that something like that would happen.

It was foggy on the morning of our departure. The driver of our car to the airport explained the various rules of the road, including how different license plate numbered cars are allowed on the roads on different days. That might explain why every single taxi driver I’ve seen here has a face different from their own on the car’s license on the dashboard, but apparently taxis are exempt from the license-plate rules. So it must be something else.

We got to the airport in plenty of time despite having to leave the airport expressway for a large portion of the journey. It had simply been closed off for no particular reason that anyone knew; grass grew wild on the empty parts. Similarly, our plane took a surprisingly roundabout route to and from Taiwan, making a huge “S” out into the ocean and then back down, almost the way it came, to Taiwan. It did the same thing on the way to Hangzhou. It must have cost us at least double the time and fuel, so perhaps “direct flights” is a bit of a euphemism. When we arrived back in Taoyuan I again couldn’t help but be reminded at how much not having an airport metro line hurts Taiwan’s image. Just the act of having to take either a taxi or a decrepit bus into town seems to diminish any kind of good first impressions one might have. Perhaps I am overthinking things, but I’ll be glad when the thing finally goes online.

So that was the trip. A lot of it was exhausting, but we saw a lot of places, and the exhibition was very well done and deserves its success. Some people from the festivals in Pingyao and Dali said they’d like me to exhibit there as well, so we’ll see what happens with those.

Ten years ago, at the 2004 Urban Nomad Film Festival, “Clay Soldiers” swept the awards (if I recall correctly. All I know is that I got a vase of some kind). That was the year we set about making “The Kiss of Lady X”, and the film, appropriately enough, premiered at this year’s Urban Nomad, which has grown much in terms of scale and scope in the last decade, this last Saturday.

I had just gotten off the plane after a couple of weeks in China due to being part of a photography exhibition there. I’d cut the visit short, despite most of the discussions and other activities being held on the weekend, because there was simply no way that I could miss our long-awaited premiere. Dean told me that due to greater-than-expected ticket sales, we’d been bumped up from the smaller 70-seat theater to the largest, 200-seat theater where the opening and closing films were being shown. Although that sounded good, I was a bit worried that the larger theater would make the audience seem smaller.

I needn’t have worried. Not long after I arrived at the Lux Theater in Ximending, a long line of people waiting to enter snaked across the adjacent square. I got a free UB t-shirt after talking with Dave Frasier and Sean Scanlon, the organizers of the festival, who have been waiting patiently all these long years for the completion of the film. It was a shame that Rowan and Dolly couldn’t make it, not to mention Josh and April. I stayed outside the theater waiting for Sandy, who was on his way and a bit lost, just to make sure he found it alright and got his free ticket. Then it was into the big, post theater, and the film began.

What can I say? It looked great. It sounded great. The audience was great, with a hugely positive response. I could feel them getting into the story, the characters, everything; they even broke into applause at several points in the film, which was enormously gratifying. So many times during production I had said, “Don’t worry, it will look good on the big screen,” and it was great to finally see if it was true. As the credits rolled and the the applause swelled, I couldn’t help but think to myself: damn, all the frustration, the waiting, the extreme measures we took to get this thing made, and made as well as we could…it was all worth it. It really was just fucking worth it.

I got up to do the Q&A, hosted by Tobie Openshaw and a Taiwanese woman who was doing the Chinese-language part, and called Dean up there as well. We talked a bit about the film and answered some questions. I called the members of the cast and crew who were able to make it up to introduce themselves, and I felt so glad that at least some of the people who had worked so hard to help us finish the project were able to partake in the joy of showing it to the world, or at least our little corner of it.

We ran out of time, as the next movie was coming up, so we made our way over to the Red House Theater area for drinks and more talking. I felt a great weight lifted from my shoulders. “This is it,” Dean told me. “It’s done, it’s finished.”

As I got up to leave, much later that night, one of the people who had seen the film asked Dean to autograph his ticket stub. He gave the pen to me, and I signed it as well. The man looked at me and asked, “Did you play a part in the film?”

“I’d like to think I did,” I said. When I told him I was the director, he brightened up and gushed at how much he loved the movie, that he was a film buff and that he thought it better than most of the things in the theaters today. Now, I know there are many problems with the film, that in technical terms it’s a bit dated, but it was just great to hear that people liked it. So many people had spent so much time giving freely of their time and talents to make this thing happen; it was wonderful to be able to give at least some of that back.

Our second and final showing of the film will be this Wednesday, at 1 p.m., also at the Lux Theater in Ximending. I plan to take the afternoon off work and attend, though I don’t think there will be any activities like the q&a; it will just be a plain showing, but I hope that everyone who wasn’t able to make the Saturday showing can at least see the movie on Wednesday.

Hangzhou was foggy this morning as we headed back to the gallery. It seems that everyone here has a DSLR around their neck, always with the kit lens. From little old ladies and old men, all the way down to kids, the DSLR is king here, in stark contrast to Japan, where everyone seemed to sport a micro-four-thirds camera.

Fu Yong-jun, the main organizer of the exhibit as well as a talented photographer in his own right, was taking people through the gallery. One of them, I was told, had won a Pulitzer Prize, but I didn’t recognize him. Another guest was a tall, thin Chinese man whom I was informed was an American-born Chinese. When he met me, he said, in accented English, “They told me you were fun. You don’t seem very fun.” He had a quick look at the photos, and shrugged dismissively. I did get a lot of interest from the media as well as the organizers of other photography festivals in China, however.

We had planned on leaving at 4 p.m. to go explore a neighborhood recommended by the woman whose exhibit was next door, but there was a sudden influx of visitors wanting to know about certain photos and taking pictures with me, so it was closer to 5 by the time we left, and it was starting to rain outside. We caught a ride with one of the friends of the organizers to the area, called Mantou Hill, where the emperor of the Southern Song Dynasty supposedly had his palace, but digging it up would be too expensive, so the government just lets the residents stay there, and the area has consequently become one of the less-developed and therefore more interesting parts of the city as a result.

The rain was coming down in earnest, however, so we eventually caught a cab back to the hotel, which, incidentally, sports “-1” and “-2” floors instead of “B1” and “B2”. This seems to be true everywhere I’ve been in China. I learned that the reason there are no gasoline-powered scooters is that motorcycles are illegal in Hangzhou. Electric scooters count as bicycles, need no license or helmets or anything, however, so all the scooters are electric.

Tomorrow and Sunday, being the weekend, are supposed to see huge crowds at the gallery, and there will be discussions and other activities. I’m going to have to miss those, however, because the long-awaited premiere of our movie is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon in Taipei, so we’re going to have to be up once again at the crack of dawn in order to make our morning flight back.

The exhibit was supposed to officially open at 1:00 this afternoon, but the official opening was contingent on the arrival of a particular public official, who was delayed, so the official opening only happened at around 3:30. People began trickling in beforehand in any case, and as usual it was a pleasure to see people viewing and discussing the photos, even though the air conditioning was frigid. The exhibition was well done and pleasantly laid out. I was interviewed for a couple of TV stations, and the Shanghai Daily is doing an email interview later.

At the opening ceremony, the emcees invited some people to discuss their photos, with predictably hilarious results:
Emcee A: “In this photo we see a tree. Now, we see many trees every day. What makes this tree so special that it deserves to be in a photograph?”

Emcee B: “In this case, there are birds in the tree.”

Most of my conversations were fun and interesting. One pair of woman wanted me to review their photos on the back of their cameras.

The gallery closed at 5 p.m., so we met up with Chin Wei, the photographer from Hong Kong, and walked down the side of the lake to the Starbucks for some drinks. The trees, which were apparently upset at being festooned with fake birdnests disguising lights, sprayed us with evil pollen, making us choke and cough while soldiers ran up and down the waterfront.

After drinks we were informed that we were being picked up soon, so we went to the roadside and watched Chin Wei’s assistant’s phone, on which two dots approached each other, until the van appeared. This is apparently a function of Wechat that I haven’t seen used on other programs, though I’d think it an obvious function in retrospect.

We had dinner with the organizers near the hotel, and got back early. They’re holding a phone photography judging competition tomorrow, and I don’t envy the judges their jobs.

The reason we got up early yet again on Tuesday morning in Hangzhou was because, in addition to the exhibition of around 50 of my photos taken in Taiwan, they also want to feature some photos I’ve taken in Hangzhou, which is a challenge for me as I am used to setting my photos aside for a period of some months before really being able to evaluate them. Also, I’d spent the past week out of Hangzhou touring seemingly every single ancient water town in the province, so I hadn’t taken many shots here.

We were met downstairs by a couple of older men who were part of the organizing group; we all piled into a taxi and headed to Xihu, which they said was interesting in the mornings.

Xihu is a large lake, surrounded by parkland, so many people in Hangzhou go there to exercise in the early morning. We walked past people doing taichi, running, biking, dancing, etc. One old man was hitting a wall with his back in a violent fashion. I asked him how many time he was doing this, and he said 87, which happens to also be his age. Further on, I couldn’t resist doing a little sword work with one group, but I managed to stay away from the tuishou practitioners, as they seemed a little rough.

We had some buns for breakfast near a large map of old Hangzhou before piling into another taxi to go to the old Wangjiangmen neighborhood we’d visited before. The near-misses in the taxi seemed less frightening after a while, which was frightening in itself.

The neighborhood is crowded during the day, the market street packed, so we explored alleys. We met Mr. Wang, who, it turns out, is much less enthusiastic when he is not drunk. He was friendly and remembered us, though, so there’s that, but there was no beer forthcoming in the morning. We gave him some pineapple cakes anyway.

Back at the hotel, we met up with some of the other invited exhibitors, including a photographer from Hong Kong and his entourage, for lunch at a nearby restaurant. After lunch we took a nap and then returned for one last look at Wangjiangmen, venturing into the touristy reconstituted bit. By that point I was so tired I stopped looking both ways before venturing into the street and was tapped by a motorcycle, but aside from some cursing on both sides, a bruised ankle and some spilled documents, nobody came out much worse. I would have liked to have gone right into the bathtub, but I had to process a handful of photos for the exhibit first.

This morning we finally had a chance to have breakfast at our new hotel, which is quite nice, even without air conditioning. I suspect they put us on a floor where the A/C is broken, and they made an excuse that the government won’t let them turn it on until it’s really, really hot outside.

The Hangzhou People’s Photography Festival or whatever it’s called, it being held in a large, interesting old building near Xihu. The printers did a really nice job, and some of the photos have been printed very large. We spent most of the day arranging and directing the installation, and then it was back the hotel. Tomorrow’s the grand opening, in the afternoon, so we can go make last-minute changes in the morning if necessary.

Xitang, it turned out, is a completely different place in the early morning. I hadn’t slept well as the bed was too small, but when we emerged onto the ancient streets that were once tread by such famous historical figures as Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible III, we found a quiet, pleasant place. I took some shots of bridges and still water and the like as people began to emerge, mostly people with cameras. Students were on their way to class down one alley, and as it was the first day after the holiday, repairs and construction work was starting up. We had a nice breakfast of egg cakes, dumplings and doujiang at the shop of a fellow who became famous for hawking his breakfast wares on his shoulders through the town every morning. Outside, hawkers from other breakfast shops sounded like wild birds every time a group of new people arrived.

We went back to our room on the canal for a nap, to find someone had taken over the seats on our balcony. It was ok, though; the tour groups had arrived, and the place was becoming a hot mess once again. It was time to leave. We caught a very well-behaved bus to the High-Speed Rail station and dined on cookies while waiting for the train while the completely ineffective security girl ignored each and every beep of her metal detector.

Hangzhou felt familiar and modern after all of the water towns we’ve seen in the past few days. After stowing our stuff at the hotel, we toured what appears to be the last old neighborhood in the city, and it is disappearing fast. The street was an item over a century ago, and is largely unchanged, but is rather run-down. We had some delicious noodles and rice at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and then walked around talking to people. One woman who was hanging things in an alley asked me for prints, and I said I would mail some to her, but she said she’d heard that story too many times, and said to just forget it. We dropped in on a family having dinner in their ancestral home; it was a very warm site, but the neighborhood is being torn down around them, and such scenes will soon be a thing of the past; you just can’t do it in a high-rise, or at least that’s what they said.

We talked with some more people in the area, including a drunken chef who insisted on sharing some beer with us, and then we explored an interesting alley that seemed to have no end, but it was late, and we’ve got another early start tomorrow, so it was back to the hotel.

Despite people carrying on with various crying, singing and chatting until at least 3 a.m., we managed to get up at 5:30 to go out and photograph Zhouzhuang, mostly bridges and the like. I hopped over a barrier, climbed onto a vacant boat and held the Invincible Rabbit inches from the water to get a shot of a bridge populated by photographers who no doubt wondered if my insurance policy was about to expire. We then walked out of the tourist part into Real China, where we had a breakfast of noodles with a side of Serious Disapproval of the One Child Policy by one of the village’s older residents. He said when he was a kid the water was clear, drinkable and devoid of things like automobiles strewn around the bottom.

We tried to visit a nearby pagoda, only to learn that it was in fact an electrical tower in disguise, which I found pretty neat. We then watched a mute, disabled man feed ducks while, across the lagoon, another man fed pigs. The raucous noise was audible even at the “temple” which had a sign proclaiming the grand history of the building, which had been built in 1056, witnessed many historical events, and was promptly destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. The current temple is not on the same spot as the original, and was built in 1995. We went inside anyway, to find fake monks lounging around in front of the god statues, playing with their mobile phones.

It began to rain as we made our way back to the hostel, where we took a nap before taking a path out of the village, through some wheat fields, to the bus station, where we caught a bus to Tongli.

Tongli was a wash, literally. We didn’t want to pay to get into a place in the rain because it was miserable, so we circled around and found an alley into the area, which was rather a mess due to all the tables and things being covered by hastily arranged tents. I asked a barber if I could take a photo of him, and he said he’d do it for money. “That’s all right, I won’t charge you anything!” I told him, smiling sincerely. I wouldn’t have, either. But he wasn’t happy at this. Oh, well.

Police were trying to mediate a housing dispute near the gate as we finally disabused ourselves of Tongli, taking a taxi to a bus station, where we hired a driver to take us to Xitang. We traveled through half of China on small roads, seemingly, trying to get here, and we were so glad to actually find the place we even bought tickets. Turns out we probably didn’t need to; people can just walk into most of these places provided they’re willing to walk a block around to the side.

Xitang is rather commercial. We were passed in a rather rude fashion by a fellow in a tricycle hauling dishes, only to find him up ahead with most of the dishes strewn on the ground when he tried to take a bridge too fast. We walked and looked at hostels until we found something cheap and by the canal, and then had some unremarkable dinner before heading out to walk around the place. There is one street here that I can only describe as Holy Shit It’s LOUD. Each bar had a band and dancers and each was trying to out flash and out blast all it’s neighbors. One even had an animatronic dinosaur flying over the bar, which I’m pretty sure was manned by some kind of alien.

We walked some more, but all this walking makes for some really sore feet. We’re going back to Hangzhou tomorrow, and that fine, as I’ve kind of had my fill of ancient Chinese watertowns for now.

The Family Mart in front of our hotel in Suzhou was like a little piece of Taiwan, an oasis of civilization, with pleasant clerks, a clean environment and a good selection of goods. We sat at the little bar by the window and ate breakfast while watching Chinese people watching us back in a wary fashion. One group of men kept yelling at one of their number who dared enter the store, though they stayed outside with their cigarettes, as if by coming inside they would be violating some kind of code.

We took the subway to Mudu. Most people in Suzhou would wait patiently on either side of the doors, but as the train entered, a young woman munching on a piece of chicken strode up to the middle, blocking all of the people trying to get off, forcing her way in and promptly blocking an old man from taking the disabled seat. Chenbl made a marked comment about people being fined for such behavior, while I reminded him that we were no longer in Taipei, and the woman put her chicken away.

We took the bus from the station to the old part of Mudu. There were so many people on the bus that I was basically sitting in the windshield next to the driver. I therefore had a great view of all the people rushing across the road against the lights. We walked past many photography salons where people dress up in garish facsimiles of traditional garb so that someone can take their picture with a Canon 350D and sell a print to them. On the way I stopped at a public toilet, which I noticed lacked partitions of any kind.

Mudu was packed with people, vacationers from other parts of the country as no self-respecting Suzhou person would visit. When we got tired we walked inside a Buddhist temple that Chenbl claimed had been abandoned by the gods because the monks were lazy. Past the enormous statues was a quiet, if messy courtyard, where a monk knocked a piece of wood to declare lunchtime. Then he fished out his iPhone, no doubt to post lunchtime announcement texts for those who had missed the knocking.

Tired of the crowds, after a lunch of tasteless cold noodles, we walked to the outskirts of the old town, where we found great swaths of devastation where entire neighborhoods were being torn down. Chenbl got a back massage, and then when we went back to the touristy part of town, we both got foot massages by two Chinese women who seemed very interested in my love life.

Dusk was falling as we got some rice and noodles from a roadside vendor, to eat as we watched, alongside most of the neighborhood, the replacement of a lightpole which seemed sure to cause disaster. It didn’t, and we walked along a nearby road that turned out to be Mudu’s red light district. The area was emptying of tourists, and we chatted with a barber in his shop alongside one of the canals about his ancient barber chairs, which were around 80 years old and looked every bit of it. He said he made about 200 yuan a day.

We took the bus back to the station, and then the subway to Suzhou’s ritzy district, full of malls and fountains and the like. One thing I’ve noticed a lot is the prevalence of the word “civilized” in public signs: “Be civilized! Don’t (fill in the blank)!” Right next to one of these proclamations, a man was filling his buckets with water from the fountains.

We walked to the riverside and through the old gate, along the road past a series of Halal restaurants and a fruit drink shop where a cat was evading capture by a pack of small dogs, and back down to our hotel. Chenbl praised the construction site’s setup, and he knows what he’s talking about.

The next morning we had more breakfast at the Family Mart after checking out of the hotel. It occurred to me that perhaps the reason Chinese people don’t patronize the chain is that they don’t like the inconvenience of having to follow the store’s rules, like not being able to smoke in the store, not being able to demand instant service from the clerk despite being the last in line, etc.

We took the subway to the other end of the line from Mudu and found a surreal, empty expanse of fields and distant apartments, where we took a bus to Luzi, another “water town” in the area. The carefully manicured landscape gradually broke down into construction and environmental issues galore as we approached our destination, whereupon we were beset by tricycle drivers who claimed they could get us inside “for free”. Turning them down, we instead followed them to a side alley and found our own way in without paying, and walked around the alleys, munching on green bean/red bean snacks and getting name poems written. I saw the first Western faces for many days, a European family, and I wondered what they were eating for lunch. Photographers were everywhere. Everyone in China seems to have been issued a 350D.

Out past the touristy bits, we found another strange phenomenon: The old buildings, I mean the really ancient, centuries-old buildings that would be designated historical landmarks anywhere else, were being torn down and replaced, Stephen Wright-style, which exact replicas.

After a surprisingly delicious lunch with genuine sweet-and-sour chicken made with fried pork dipped in vinegar, we took a tricycle out to a remote bus stop, where we hopped on the bus headed for Zhouzhuang. This bus, which was apparently equipped with GPS, stopped and opened its doors at every. single. stop along the way, regardless of whether anyone was getting on or off. I assumed that if the driver did not do so, the station named would be off, or something.

At Zhouzhuang, we found to our pleasant surprise that the hotel we’d booked was actually inside the old part of town, and on a canal no less. The people rowing the tourist-filled boats sing as they ply the canals, which is fun. There’s a trendy disco-filled canal a ways away, which we are thankfully not staying near. The place isn’t nearly as full as we’d expected, given the fact that it’s one of the most well-known touristy bits in the area. We wandered around town a bit, had some dinner, and plan to get up early tomorrow to see what’s going on. That is, if the owner of the place ever stops chatting outside our window.

Dust from the demolition of old buildings was rising in the morning light when  we got up, gathered our things, and partook of the reasonable hotel breakfast. After stowing some luggage at the hotel, we walked over to the nearest subway station, passing through the remains of old neighborhoods where people were having their breakfasts in nooks and alleys.

The subway in Hangzhou features an airport-type security system where everything has to be scanned, which seems like overkill. The Hangzhou high speed rail station looks and feels like an airport, sort of like Taiwan’s HSR stations, but on a larger scale. A trio of cleaning women stood on top of the glass ceiling, washing it. We didn’t manage to get any seats, so I sat on a luggage rack and glared at the people sitting in the first class cabin for the 30-minute trip to Jiaxing, where we piled into the old VW of a local man who offered to take us to Nanxun. We drove through typical Chinese sprawl, which is to say it was depressing. I hadn’t slept well the night before, so I dozed in the back seat as we hurled down the road, dodging suddenly appearing farmers and cargo trucks, all our windows open, creating a maelstrom of detritus and other high-school vocabulary words in the car all along the way.

The part of Nanxun that we visited required tickets, theoretically. Practically, most people didn’t bother, but we bought them anyway, so that we could see the exhibits. We passed some laughing cooks and proceeded into one of the large complexes owned by an old family where a group of cleaning women were very unhappy when I photographed them washing clothes in the courtyard. That put me in a sour mood for a bit, but the complexes themselves were interested, and reminded me a little of the colleges at Oxford, little walled worlds unto themselves within a larger, yet rural community. It was difficult to imagine all of the social life, the parties and concerts and poetry that supposedly took place in the dark, staid halls, adorned occasionally by western accouterments. The parts of the village outside of official control, where people actually lived, were far more interesting. We crossed canal after canal, over high bridges, talking with people here and there, but our driver, a Mr. Cao, was waiting, and soon we were on our way to Wuzhen.

With its gate and entry complex, the western part of Wuzhen is not a little like Disneyworld. We bought tickets and circumvented a small lake to the main part of the little city, walking along narrow streets among ancient houses, the whole thing crisscrossed with canals plied by boats big and small. There were many places to stay inside, but we hadn’t procured such a place, as we couldn’t tell online which hotels were inside and which weren’t, and ours weren’t.  In fact, our room was at the top of five flights of stairs and was very basic, to say the least.

But Wuzhen was interesting. Personally, I think they should give massive discounts to everyone who enters wearing period dress, but that’s just me. Out towards the big canal were more fashionable bits with bars, singing Filipinos, fake temples and haunted towers. We took a boat back to the entrance and walked around a bit before heading back to the hostel, where we arranged to try and gain entrance to the eastern part of Wuzhen early the next morning to see the sunrise over the canals. This is technically impossible as the place opens at 9 or so, but a bald man named Zhang told us he could get us in.

To make a long story short, he couldn’t. He drove us up and down a series of impossibly narrow alleys, the car’s mirrors scraping the stone walls, but every little access point had been blocked. The most likely reason for this disturbing display was the fact that it was May 1st,  the day when China comes out to play. Hordes of tourists were expected to descend on all of the major tourist spots, so we wanted to get in early.

We bade Mr. Zhang farewell and got our own damn tickets, thanks for nothing, and entered the complex to find it already rather crowded even though it hadn’t officially opened. A girl scolded her boyfriend for littering, but didn’t bother picking up the trash he had just tossed on the ground. People washed clothes in the canals. We caught a couple of exhibitions, including Famous Beds of the Ages, before the crowds surged in. I was yelled at by a woman for taking her photo as she stood in her doorway; unlike the western part of Wuzhen, the eastern part is inhabited by many of the original residents, and while many of them profit from the tourists, many no doubt are also irritated by them (us). I turned a corner to see a woman holding her head, the ground splattered with bright red drops of blood. Apparently the store owner had just bopped her on the head with one of the store’s boards just as she was opening shop. The woman’s friends hustled her away as the shop owner proffered a box of tissues.

By mid morning the place was getting rather crowded, so we headed out of the main complex, pausing to talk with a mother and daughter who lived in an adjacent area that was soon to be added to the tourist part; they were happy about it and looking forward to it, but I wondered if they too would tire of the crowds. We then walked southwards along the big canal to the southern part of Wuzhen, which was more rundown, but less crowded.

We walked and walked. The crowds thinned out. One older man, a barber who was infatuated with both Sun Yat-sen and Theresa Teng, showed us his poetry. Soon there more chickens, ducks, dogs and cats around than people, so we turned back north. It was getting hot, and the large canal was host to an amazing range of odors. It all reminded me strongly of when I lived in Kaiping in 1993. Chenbl got his backpack patched by a seamstress in a dark shop while her family watched.

We were tired from walking, so after checking out of the hotel, we lounged around a nearby hotel restaurant, picking at the food and listening to “China’s Got Some Out-of-Tune Singers” on TV until a couple of security types and police arrived with a man who claimed his watch had been stolen, and they apparently wanted to use the restaurant to interrogate him, so we left, passing an electric sign in the hallway that claimed the building was currently on fire.

We’d checked out the other parts of Wuzhen, so we went north, but found little of interest. Chinese flags lined the buildings next to a new bridge, and a local resident told us that they were seen as a kind of protection against the bad fengshui the bridge was causing.

Mr. Cao, who picked us up, was fearful that the horrible traffic would cause us to miss our train, but we arrived at the high speed rail station in plenty of time. In fact, our train had more trouble getting there than we did, as it was delayed by nearly an hour, allowing us to talk to some health food representatives, causing me to want to eat some really unhealthy food. I did, in the form of some potato chips, and they were truly awful.

The infrastructure of China’s bullet trains is basically similar to those of Taiwan, but there the similarity ends. While the trains in Taiwan are clean, quiet and pleasant, in China they are filled with shouts, kicking, odors and, I think, some kind of chicken, if my nose can be trusted. The good news, when we got to Suzhou, was that our hotel was right by the subway entrance, but the bad news is that the hotel gave us the farthest possible room they could, on the top floor of an adjacent building. As we were checking in, a man smoking the lobby tossed his lit cigarette at my feet. This is normal here. Dinner was of questionable quality at a nearby restaurant where the cleaning lady was clearly miffed that we were seated in her zone.

I have no idea what we are going to do today. Whatever one does in Suzhou. I’m fairly sure it will involve canals, for some reason.