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This past Thursday, I observed one of those rare events only the most unguarded moments of humanity can provide. I'm sure every city has their similar unique, quirky phenomenon. That heartfelt sentiment that can only be experienced in a specific locale. Chicago has the 147 and the 151 between 5:00p and 7:00p, Detroit its Greek Town pubs at the first hint of spring on a Friday afternoon, LA its breathtaking view from the balcony of the Getty on a clear day, and New York – walks in the village anytime.
You all know it when it happens. It happens without notice. Without pretense. Completely spontaneous.
To be completely immersed in the sappy naïveté it was, for one brief moment, as John Lennon wrote "all the people living for today."
I had just finished an exhausting swim feeling the effects of an anaerobic final set and I was still "floating" on the six-block walk to the ferry. If I'm to stay on my schedule it's a calculated, brisk walk, dodging cars, trucks, vans and buses with the odd motor scooter carrying anything from a three person family and miniature dog, to ten meter lengths of bamboo in the balance. It takes about seven minutes. Making it is the difference between waiting another fifteen-minute cycle and getting on with business.
I made the docks, with a few minutes to spare, well into a most satisfying endorphin high.
As my fellow commuters and I awaited arrival of the Mrs. Fields boat (as Kris aptly christened it) the density of the mass slowly increased. The Chinese, I am convinced are the most closely related to our water emergent ancestors, as they will fill the smallest of space in the most fluid of fashion with barely a nudge to ensure the highest possible density per square meter.
We were packed like sardines.
The ferry pilots have a game of sorts and the pilot of the Mrs. Field’s express was no exception. They love to provide a bit of excitement in the form of "gangway surfing" to the awaiting commuter crowd on the docks. They will, to borrow a John McClain term, "drive" like Stevie Wonder (by feel). The effects of a ferry weighing hundreds of tons slamming into a pontoon supported gangway at about three knots is an at-first terrifying, then soaring feeling. The reverberations soon subsided and the boat was tied in.
The ferry had emptied its human cargo and the restraining gate allowing access to the empty vessel opened. It was as if a gate releasing a PBR Championship bull rider had been opened unleashing a great expanse of energy. People for whatever reason run as if they might actually "miss the boat." It is the Shanghai sprint, a chaotic, short 20-meter dash. This day it was as if I hovered above the crowd watching and moving in slow motion. I casually wrote-off trying to secure my usual seat at the bow, just under the large "picture window" on the main deck. Surprisingly most of the jackrabbits opted for the second deck out in the open air. My seat patiently awaited my arrival.
As I settled, the trip seemed slightly more crowded than usual but nothing extraordinary.
My entertainment for this portion of the trip is to observe the "cat and mouse" game between the deckhands and the last of commuters scurrying for the ferry. (It is the only charade remotely similar to anything Gopher-esque on this short cruise). The deckhands are the gatekeepers. They close the gate in the waning seconds prior to launch as the Customs House clock on the Bund chimes "The East Is Red."* Its signal ends the fifteen-minute respite before the poor messenger with its load must endure the viscous gray paint kindly called the Huangpu. Milliseconds prior to send-off the few brave souls, running as if for their lives, toddler, luggage, or bales of goods to sell on the streets in tow, elude the pinches of the closing gate and the ferrie's two sliding seesames, to triumphantly join the masses en route. A small celebration ensues as their adrenaline dissipates.
The deckhands untie and we are off to PuDong.
The new financial zone this day is a blaze silver and gold in the skies as well as adorning the usual Shanghai gray of the river as if bangled for a night on the town. It's exhilarating in a way few cities can claim.
As we sped along amidst the barges loaded to the deck line ("never mind the waterline we can still carry more..."), freighters and large ocean going container vessels, a rocking motion became evident. It informed all that the river was indeed busy.
Just passed the half way point of the commute and above the normal buzz of hundreds of chatterboxes, a song began to play on the PA system. It is normal to hear music, nothing unusual, or so I thought, just a calming, pleasant melody.
With in a bar or two, I noticed that people became aware of the music. First it seemed women with infants acknowledged the tune by quietly, signing or humming along. Soon after the young women and elderly of both genders joined adding to depth of the chorus. Within about a minute even the ultra-cool, nouveau-hip, and punk Sino-sons had humbly joined in.
As the volume grew so too did a deeply felt sentiment of quiet contentment.
(I suppose the western equivalent would have been the 32nd chorus of Hey Jude.)
As we slowly rocked towards the PuDong docks we were no longer on the planet. It was as if we were sailing between the covers of a Chris Van Allsburg book. We were in fact carried by the unwavering, heartfelt tune. The voice of a single woman accompanied by a semi-new age composition had lifted everyone to some point beyond their mundane existence, cool bedazzled UGGs, fussing babies, heavy loads of counterfeit Louis Vuitton whatever's to a common point. The point at which everyone in need of soothing companionship, a kind word or strong shoulder found exactly that.
It was that rare 120 seconds or so, when very unassumingly, a lethargic boat believed it could, and escaped the gravity of earth's monotonous, dull, aching tugs. We ascended beyond the metallic mirrored glass buildings newly appointed to beckon the money grabbers, shysters, and highfalutin the world over, without missing a beat.
Time and all dimension had ceased to exist and all were one as we sailed on.
Before the music and chorus completely faded, upon reentry to Shanghai life, we were abruptly greeted with the Mrs. Field's boat’s signature mooring – a slam against the docks to awaken Davey Jones.
As we all began to exit, a calm I have rarely felt en masse on this planet, was present.
I asked the cool young Shanghainese Gen Y-er next to me if the song was something new or old. (My secret hope was that it would be the overwhelming successor to the Gangnam Style.) He struggled to find the English words finally saying "it is berry, berry oat" as he made a cradling, rocking motion. His crackling voice and aversion to direct eye contact, soon made it apparent that it wasn't the language he wrestled with.
This was more than simply a lullaby.
So, with the boat emptying and the hush slowly lifting, those flashing back sentimentally continued humming, and still others crying an odd tear, we all went our separate ways, but not before we had all been bestowed a generous dose of joy.
* – My driver Mr. Zhao would tell you the east is yellow, no black, no white, no red – only yellow.
That's a differently entry.
That's a differently entry.
