Shanghai

I'd had a lot of ideas, earlier in my trip, about what I might do in Shanghai: Shop (since I wouldn't have to worry too much about packing light at that point); get a massage, a haircut, a manicure and a pedicure; ride the world's tallest elevator. But by the time my bus actually approached Shanghai my ambitions had been pared down considerably: go to the doctor, and see the Bund.

We pulled into the bus station at about 1:30 am. The Canadians and the woman from Shanghai with the Marilyn Monroe voice firmly led me away from the unlicensed taxi drivers (as if I hadn't figured out by now not to take an unlicensed taxi!), and the English teachers disappeared. The woman from Shanghai ushered the Canadians into what she considered a reputable taxi, and then set to work finding the right cab for me among the cluster of licensed cabs. Spotting a Da (something) taxi at the edge of the bunch, she took my hand and led me to it. I had an idea that she probably understood English, but all I remember hearing her say in either language was "very good" (in English). I got in the taxi, thanked her, and gave the driver the piece of paper with the address of my hostel.

I recognized the broad, nearly-empty road out to the hostel: it was the one the bus had come in on. There was a raised highway overhead, and as on the way in, I noticed welding sparks falling off it. I was tired enough to find them wonderfully fascinating and atmospheric.

At an intersection the driver pulled over and asked someone at the corner where the hostel was. Then he came back to the car and told me (with liberal use of sign language) to get out and walk a short distance. I looked at him skeptically. It was the middle of the night, I was tired, I didn't know Shanghai, and I walked with a limp. I knew better by now than to cling to my American idea that taxis take you exactly where you're supposed to go, but cling I did. The driver reacted to my skeptical look by gesturing even more enthusiastically, as though I were a wayward airplane. Alright, then. I paid him and went off in the direction indicated. On the corner an ATM from a Chinese bank I'd had success with before. I tried it, and lo and behold, it worked! I had money, and I was finally in Shanghai, steps from a place to sleep. I might have had a spring in my step as I limped toward my hostel, which was in fact quite close.

Things only got better: The Shanghai City Central hostel was probably the best I'd stayed in in China. It was huge and new, and the staff was professional and spoke English well. For some reason I got a free upgrade to a suite (two twin beds and a couch downstairs, a double bed upstairs). It was just what I needed.

The next morning I enjoyed a free breakfast buffet (a first in China) in the hostel restaurant while watching CNN (yet another first). Then I asked one of the women at the front desk about an English-speaking doctor. She gave me a card for a local hospital and told me to take a taxi. This sounded simple, but catching a taxi from the hostel was, strangely, not. It was on a major street, so I tried stepping out to the raised strip between the bike lane and the car lanes and doing my Chinese hand-wave. All the empty taxis that drove by seemed to be in the middle lane, which didn't seem efficient, especially in rush-hour traffic. None showed any interest in picking me up. After a while I wandered down to the big intersection where I'd been dropped off the night before and tried from a corner. Then I tried from the median, which admittedly didn't seem to be a good place to get a cab, but in this lawless traffic, who knew? Finally an older man waiting to cross the street pointed out the spot where taxis were allowed to stop, and did. I got a Da (something) taxi almost instantly.

I couldn't understand a word the driver said, and guessed whether the right response to a particular question was to hand him the hospital's card, or say "I don't understand," or "I don't know." There was quite a bit of traffic, and it felt like a long trip, and I amused myself by trying to read Chinese. I realized I was headed to "Flower Mountain" hospital, which seemed almost inappropriately whimsical until I realized that Hua Shan (flower mountain) is actually a neighborhood. Then I read the ad on the back window of another Da (something) taxi: Wo chi, wo chi, wo chi chi chi (I eat, I eat, I eat, eat, eat). Was this an ad for a restaurant? Odd. Then I noticed the characters were above a phone number, 57 57 5777 (pronounced wu qi, wu qi, wu qi qi qi). I'd decoded a Chinese mnemonic!

I met another 20-something American woman in the hospital elevator (floor 8 for English speakers). She'd been living in Shanghai for a month, teaching English, and hadn't had much time out too explore outside the city so far. The story seemed familiar.

I didn't have to wait long to see the doctor, a small 50-ish man with a friendly face whose English was not quite fluent. I sat across from him at his desk while he carefully copied the information from the forms I'd filled out. He commented that my country had an election coming up, and asked who I thought would win. Then he asked how he could help me today.

My issue was a little strange to explain even to native English-speakers: "My shoe rubbed a hole in my heel, and now my ankle is huge." I tried, and then just showed him. He ushered me over to the hospital bench in the corner and even drew the curtain, which I thought was funny: Wouldn't want anyone walking in and seeing my bare foot! As soon as he saw it, all his sentences seemed to end in exclamation marks: "Oh, it is infected! It is very severe! You will need intravenous antibiotics!" The exclamation marks made him sound strangely cheerful, and I felt cheered. Clearly, I'd done the right thing in coming to the hospital, but now that I was here the doctor knew what to do. There'd been no talk of death or amputation. I put my sock and shoe back on and sat down in the chair at the desk.

The doctor decided which antibiotic I should take and went to make sure they had it in stock. I told him I'd be leaving the next day and was allergic to some antibiotics. He asked me which ones. I told him. I repeated it once or twice, enunciating as well as I could. Finally he had me write them down.

"amoxicillan" I began.

"More clear!" he ordered. Very well.

AMOXICILLAN
ERITHROMYCIN
SEPTRA

My mom had me memorize the list at a very young age, and it's burned on my memory like a Sesame Street ditty (thanks, mom!). The doctor disappeared again, and then returned to tell me that I should be fine with what he was prescribing. As for my impending trip, I'd get an IV now and one in the morning, and then I should get to a hospital as soon as I got back to the States to continue my once-daily infusions.

I had to wait near the nurses station for my IV, and saw the American again. We talked about our diagnoses, and about learning Chinese and why she'd come to Shanghai.

When I finally limped out of the hospital, I took a taxi to the Bund. It was an overcast day, but I had a good view of the TV tower and the skyscrapers across the river. I chose a restaurant in a nearby shopping district for lunch. The waitress told me to get catfish, and I complied, ordering a few other dishes as well. The dish that had been translated into English as "vegetarian chicken" turned out to be cubes of tofu atop a bed of sliced fermented eggs--not exactly what I'd had in mind. But while I found the fermented eggs just as inedible as the first one I'd tried, the flavor they leant the tofu wasn't bad at all. Overall I was fairly underwhelmed by the food, and decided to do something different for dinner.

At the moment, though, my sleep debt weighed on my heavily. I took the subway back to the hostel, noting that it was just as nice as the one in Beijing.

After my nap, I consulted Lonely Planet and found a recommended Indian restaurant in the old French Concession. I found it easily, a tiny anglophone haven above a quiet bar. At the table to my right, an American man and a Chinese woman alternated between Chinese and English. At the table to my left, two Indian-Malaysian men spoke English with two Chinese women. The owner came around and anointed the women with stick-on dots between our eyebrows. He debated the Malaysians about how long it had been since they'd visited--apparently they came to Shanghai regularly on business. He remembered the American too. The spiciness of my dish forced me to eat at a leisurely pace, and as I read a magazine and eavesdropped I started to form a romantic vision of what life would be like as an expat in Shanghai. After I left the restaurant, I wandered down a street lined with expat bars, which gave way to a more diverse array of businesses. I stopped in a small tea shop and bought a few things, then in a massage parlor. I meant to get just a back rub but ended up with the full treatment, which would have been fine if it hadn't involved pounding on my shins: I still had a huge bruise on one from my bike accident in Lijiang. Later I saw that while no new bruises had been created, color from the original one had diffused as far as my foot.

I caught a cab to the Bund, since it was my last chance to see it at night. I took some pictures, and then headed back to the hostel and bed.

The next morning I woke up early and tried to pack reasonably quickly. I wanted to take advantage of the breakfast buffet before heading to the hospital, and hoped to have a little bit of time in the city between my IV and the airport.

The doctor came by to talk to me while the medicine dripped into me. The swelling and pain had decreased significantly, so he prescribed some oral antibiotics for me and told me I'd only need to see a doctor in the States if my ankle started to get worse again. This was good news--I hadn't been looking forward to navigating the American medical system in California, where I don't have a doctor.

I left the hospital without a limp (though I was still wearing my dirty hiking shoes--the swelling wouldn't allow me to put on my pretty pair). I took the subway to the stop nearest the Bund, but walked the other direction along the pedestrian street. I didn't have much time. I came to a square where a stage had been set up, and a troupe of green-clad women were putting on a free dance performance. The style of dance didn't seem to require much athletic ability, but much smiling, synchronization, and umbrella-twirling. I watched for awhile, then went back to the hostel to pick up my things.

I took the maglev train to the airport, even though it required riding the subway to the other side of town. I alternately watched the digital speedometer climb to 431 km/hour and back down again, and watched the cars on the highway next to us quickly fall behind. The whole ride took five minutes or so.