Time keeps on and the hands travel backward.

Hard to believe it's been over a month since the last post. Things have been busy here and at the same time I've seen a ton of stuff to write about. Just in the last month the monumental task of seasonal garden bed change-outs and tree pruning on the boulevards has taken place. Imagine that every avenue in New York looked like Park Avenue and you'll get an idea of how fanatically proud the Shanghainese are of their city.

It's this pride that has been a real surprise to me. I grew up during the cold war and expected that the Chinese would be far more "Stepford" and mechanical in the dissipating shadow of the Cultural Revolution. If one is forced to achieve it is generally a soulless or apathetic proposition by virtue of deprived liberties. Even the lowest rung on the Shanghainese ladder, presumably the street sweeper, is fastidious about the quality of their work.

This leads to a much more bizarre conundrum as people ascend the ladder where it seems greed and cutting corners on quality are prized attributes that transcend pride and cross the territorial line into arrogance.

Evidence of the Chinese transition from third world to world power is apparent everyday in the form of decades old three-wheeled bikes hauling everything from recyclables, to water cooler refill bottles, to plate glass panes to who knows what all in the shadow of Shanghai Tower. The old is definitely being swallowed by the new.

On the home front, Amy our Ayi has settled into the new domestic routine, including cooking (... yes, Chinese food). The in-imitable Mr. Zhao, our driver has a new Ford S-Max (or as he says essa-maxa) that he operates with surgical precision. And the ships endlessly navigate the Huangpu as a testament to the voracious consumption here.

After three months of living here, if you asked me to stick a thumbtack in the metaphorical corresponding spot on the western time line it would have to be at some point during the creative revolution of the late fifties or early sixties. A sexual revolution reminiscent of the first wave of the British invasion is happening full force. A retailer's poster that caught my eye sums up the new Chinese. It screamed in fluorescent colors (like a four-year old throwing a tantrum at the check-out line) "It's new. I want it!" 

In the coming weeks I will connect these dots.

© 2011 Karl Shaffer

To infinity and beyond!

Criss Angel eat your heart out.

As a matter of fact, that is a sofa levitating outside my 20th floor balcony.

Sometimes, more and more as time passes, one just has to love the Chinese people. They do things that we, as Americans, have been conditioned not to attempt because of legislation, insurance rhetoric, fear of lawsuits, boo-boos, or whatever.

In this case, I wholly expected the outcome to be as magnificent as the climax to those wonderful Warner Brother’s Road Runner cartoons where upon, Wiley Coyote’s ascension, is met, by a more rapid, and eventful decent into oblivion. Which is exactly why I bothered to record this event with images in the first place.

Much to my dismay, something that Americans have come to second-guess all too often prevailed – common sense.

I can hear it now watchdog groups, “You're lucky something terrible didn't happened” or “Wait’ll the boss hears about this!” even worse “It’s all fun and games until my lawyer gets involved.”

China will have none of it.

If it looks possible they will, with measured risk, attempt to make it happen. I suspect some of this is due to a Wei Qi mentality. (Wei Qi the strategic game that involves problem solving by identifying opportunities in a landscape of shifting probabilities.) Just who calculated the probability and what the variables taken into account were, is not immediately clear.

The problem in this case, a sofa bigger than the apartment front door, as well as the elevator. Was met by an opportunity, having a better than average probability for success; getting the sofa up to the 28th floor, through a sliding glass door large enough to accommodate it, with a window washer’s guide wire, a mover’s tension strap and a few nylon ropes to help traverse.

As Ed Harris so eloquently, and forcefully mandated many years ago “Failure is not an option.”

I watched for about 15 minutes as a conversation focused on the sofa ensued between two movers, seven security guards and one female supervisor. Once all parties involved had spoken or enlisted support to one opinion or other, it was off to the 28th floor. The window washer’s guide wire was lowered to connect to the securely bound sofa. There were numerous inspections of the mover’s tension strap and the connection. As the sofa began to rise, the seven security guards dispersed to a wider parameter and still with keen eyes, evaluated the security of the connection and stability of the lone mover manning the traverse line. Again, the De facto commission gives its approval for lift-off.

Slowly, the sofa rose above the bushes, smaller trees and eventually the tallest Palms.

The security guards’ parameter grew larger as the sofa was hoisted higher. It is important to note at this point, that the opportunity of increased altitude brought with it a greater probability of a “big boom” if any of the principle components should fail. Soon the "sofawaffe" approached my balcony at about 320ft without incident. The slackness of the traverse rope puzzled me because the sofa was seemingly as stable a rock while the mover manning the rope seemed to be vigorously wrestling with it.

Within a few seconds it was at the height depicted in the image above and quietly ascending to the 28th floor. Slowly, and steadily she rose to her new crib. I was awestruck. They did it. Even thought I could see wires the smoke and mirrors couldn't hide, I was astounded. 

Then as quietly as it had all started, "mission control" disbanded and went on to lesser furniture and more chatter on the security radios.

The one probability that I’m willing to wager on, is that the Chinese appetite for the "new" will assure that re-entry is much faster than lift-off.

© 2011 Karl Shaffer

1955-2011. What a trip.

                                                                                                                          © 2011 Jonathan Mak

Steve Jobs never stopped dreaming.
More importantly, for all of us,
he never stopped making those dreams come true.
That alone should be reason we are inspired to do the same.

Cities do not build themselves.

Shanghai Tower as it will appear in the financial district in Pudong.

“Cities do not build themselves, machines cannot make machines, unless back of them all are the brains and toil of men.” – Lewis W. Hine

Over the past two months the people of Shanghai have inspired me. There is an energy here that I can only relate to via my early experiences in New York City in the mid-1980’s, and those two generations removed, of my grandparents at Ellis Island, in the early 1900’s (in the excitement they must have felt as opposed to "freedoms" they would enjoy). There seems to be a sense of purpose and a quiet optimism. Everywhere I look they are building. Perhaps the most significant sign of this quiet optimism is a walk down the street – Shanghai Tower.

The tower is the third in the architectural trilogy (in the new middle of Shanghai) symbolizing the past, present and future, of not only Shanghai, but also China and quite possibly all of Asia-Pacific. It will be the world’s second tallest building, only to the Burj Khalifa, in Dubai. It will also be in Asia’s first super high-rise corridor.

I have posted a few images from architecture and design firm Genlser to give an idea of how they, and apparently the people of Shanghai, envision the future. Like most of the world’s tall buildings, and the numerous man made wonders throughout time, let's not forget they are stratagems in a modern sense of the word, meant to inspire and seduce.

The building itself is elegant in its simplicity and form. When one considers the architectural “prefixes” of the Jin Mao Tower, representing the past, and Shanghai World Financial Center, representing the present, Shanghai Tower makes a credible argument as an accurate vision of the future. Like many great works of art it seems natural in the context of its place and time. It endears with a familiarity and originality. Many architects will likely, upon its completion, pontificate to having discounted such an aesthetic in favor of something more radical.

They would have missed the point.

The great thing about the building is its intrinsic Confucianism. If you believe there is a rhythm to Shanghai it's definitely rooted in Confucianism, at least on the surface. This is a building, like the traffic I have described in Shanghai, that at once conforms and defies. As it towers some 630 meters over the streets of the Pudong financial district it will spiral 120º laterally to lessen the impact of high winds on inhabitants as it pierces the skyline. It will have gardens and green areas enveloped within to create spaces as awesome as one might imagine the legendary, hanging gardens of Babylon to have been.

As the crowning achievement of Shanghai, it will also come to symbolize the struggle looming over Shanghai, of whether or not it has the soul to become one of the world's most decadent cities.

Shanghai Tower was born to be a magnet for capital investment as well as capital divestment of sorts (from the lax hand of a voracious new consumer). And make no mistake the competition is fierce for such high stakes in a global marketplace, even more so among the emerging Chinese mega cities. The tower will demarcate a neighborhood that surpasses the most affluent shopping addresses from Rodeo drive, to Magnificent Mile, to Fifth Avenue.

1. Framed By Jin Mao and SWFC.   2. The second ring milestone.   3. A Night vision accenting the 120º spiral.

Shanghai Tower has recently reached a few small milestones with respect to its grand expectations. In the past week, a second, structural reinforcing ring has been completed at about the 20th floor. The jump cranes are in the process of jumping to the next increment, to complete the third “can” in the stack of nine. It is now nine stories taller than it was when we arrived in early August. The work is continuous, day and night, rain or shine, dog day or holiday. It is as life in this city.

The sentiment is of witnessing the emergence of the Empire State Building in the late 1920s and early 1930s. A young city, in a young country aspiring to overtake and replace a vanguard. Seeking to establish its own voice so as to invite and eventually lord over the conversation. Day-by-day, week-by-week, Shanghai climbs to a place few cities have gone and few could go. What inspires me most about all of this is that it's not the first time Shanghai has been in this position.

When it's finished history will reserve judgment and look beyond the obvious. Like another famous stratagem in history, the Trojan Horse, it will be a matter of the success of the ideology emanating from it, as to how great the brains and toil that built it, will be remembered. 
© 2011 Karl Shaffer

Shanghai: the debate rages. Noun, verb, or both?

A bit of swill, a wee bit more – thus a verb is born.

I suppose this should have been one of the very first entries in this chronicle of experiences. However, in the interest of being fair, open-minded, and uncharacteristically sans-paranoia, I chose to wait and see if my first impressions were warranted.

            

After numerous coincidences, it seems that there may be an ever-so-slight basis in reality for such an entry.

            

In any event, on with the debate.

            

A noun – is a word used to name a person, place, thing, or idea. A noun can be a proper noun or a common noun.  A verb – is a word that shows action, or that indicates a condition, or a state of being. It is indeed a rare occasion when either transcends its own classification and joins the realm of the other.

            

Enter, Shanghai. It is at once a city, Shanghai, and a state of being, shanghaied.

            

To understand the nature of being “shanghaied” one really needs to understand the origin of the word (which, I for one, have taken for granted). It is as much a lesson in geography as it is in linguistics because geography was the catalyst for the original linguistic interpretation of the shanghaied state of being.

            

Shanghai is located at the mouth of the Yangtze River, with the Huangpu River dividing the city nearly in half just before it reaches the Yangtze. This geographic dynamic created a tremendous network of waterways giving the region a great advantage where commerce and trade are concerned. In the 1800’s this advantage required manual laborers, specifically sailors, to sustain it. If you’ve ever sailed, even on the smallest vessel, you know that it involves concerted manual labor (heck – my kids don’t even want to sail because they might have to clean the boat when we’re finished). Something that the opportunities of the late 18th century could help a wise young lad to supersede if he had a lick of sense. It was the combination of this geography, commerce, and need for manual laborers that birthed the origin of the verb “shanghaied”.

            

Apparently, many sailors in Shanghai started their careers by virtue of "involuntary actions" – they were kidnapped for compulsory service aboard a ship, especially after being drugged (I need some of that stuff – Dramamine just doesn’t have the same effect with my kids). 

             

Let the newly expatriated be warned. The following definitions should always be tucked away in the back of an expat’s mind so as to not be so naïve as to think that Shanghai exists exclusively as a noun. 

            

shanghaied:

1. To kidnap (a man) for compulsory service aboard a ship, especially after drugging him.

2. To induce or compel (someone) to do something, especially by fraud or force.

I will let you ponder the definitions for a bit and imagine the many ways a new citizen, namely the expat, in 2011, can meander about in Shanghai, while being shanghaied.

            

The essence of the original definition of shanghaied is alive and well today sans the illicit narcotics and premeditated intend (might I be erring on the side of political correctness… ).  Not only is the essence evident in our recent quest for moon cakes but also numerous other more important and necessary endeavors of immigration. 

            

Whether shanghaied by intent, or negligence, it smarts just the same.

            

This is especially so when the intricacies of language and technology are involved in connection with cellular services in China. I may have been a bit premature in discounting narcotics when you consider the habitual use of  “black berries” and “smartphones” (of which I do confess to, but can control the need for) an absolute, addictive indulgence. 

            

All you can do is smile and keep on moving.

to be continued.

©2011 Karl Shaffer

The dark side of the moon cake.

The legendary moon cake is right up there with fruit cake.

So what is this moon cake furry all about? Turns out these cakes are steeped in a really wonderful Chinese tradition, the Mid-Autumn (Moon) Festival. This festival romantically celebrates the first moon of autumn and has its roots buried somewhere back 3,000 years (get the Tolstoy def @ wikipedia). 

Native Shanghaiese will tell you it’s a special time to find a nice quiet place to watch autumn’s first moonrise with the closest of loved ones and share the puck-like cakes. Our vision, a small pool at a river's edge perfectly reflecting the starry heavens, under a gently swaying willow, as the river tranquilly slides by. A giant, golden moon on the rise soon overshadows the small, dim, paper globe lanterns.

Ah hmm, we got a late start, this year. We're settling for a clear view of the river's edge from the 18th floor.

Moon Festival all sounds really nice and sweet as I learn more. Sharing the evening and traditional cakes is the one-way Chinese swear by, to ensure life-long happiness with your most cherished.

“Cool”, I thought, “This is the sort of holiday that allows for natural charm and wit to take over. Now all I have to do is get my hands on a few of these little golden cakes. How hard can that be?”

To make an acute point regarding degree of difficulty, ‘ ever wait in line during the Christmas season to get your very own HoneyBaked® Ham in the early 1980s before you realized that you also had to have ordered it three weeks in advance?

It’s the Sunday before this year’s Monday celebration, Kris, K8 and I set out to procure the lunar delicacies. Let it be known that we were not armed with the fore mentioned information.

As we approached our destination, the holy slab of Shanghai retail, an eight storied, one square block, alpha structure, called Super Brands Mall (no, I didn’t name it), I’m feeling lucky. Hundreds of people pass me by toting bags with boxes full of the dense cakes. Everyone is in on this act, Donut King (China’s Dunkin’ Donuts), small convenience stores, Starbucks, not one to miss an opportunity jumped-in with an eight cake commemorative box that nearly cost a trip to the moon, then there’s Ichido a confectioner and bakery, and finally, the real “legitimatizer” Häagen-Dazs.

When all said and done over one hundred million will likely be consumed in Shanghai alone. This estimate is based on a pre-festival estimate of eight million boxes (with an average eight cakes per box) being consumed in Guangzhou* a city about half the size of Shanghai – In one weekend. Did I just hear McDonald’s whimper?

Now I understand why the Chinese government decided to levy a tax on moon cakes (maybe the US should think about making Mid-Autumn (Moon) Festival a national/taxable holiday too).

It struck me that this was going to be easier than I thought.

As we enter the mall and jump on an escalator, a gentleman ahead of us has one of the ornately decorated bags from Häagen-Dazs. I tap him against Kris’ better judgment and in my best, broken Chinese-mime, I ask where he got it. He painstakingly takes the time to direct me in a more eloquent Chinese-mime (I have a lot to learn). Soon we are heading to the “latest thing” the pop-up Häagen-Dazs moon cake store! What luck. We arrive and there is no one in the velvet rope cattle call. I can still see stacks of boxes and pre-packed bags of boxes full of the cakes. Are we good or what?

As we approach the counter we look over the price list and we decide on a medium size box. A well-meaning Häagen-Dazs girl greets us. She asks me something and I point to the menu item that we had decided upon. She asks me something again and I point again. This goes on for about a minute and finally, I draw her a picture thinking this will end all confusion. She shakes her head no and I’m starting to think, "this girl doesn’t want anyone who doesn't look like her to have any of these Häagen-Dazs cakes!" My irreverence bubbling up mentally, “No way am I going to the 7-11 for moon cakes.”

Suddenly, another of the Häagen-Dazs associates shows Kris a small slip of paper. 

Then it becomes clear. No ticket. No moon cakes.

(Days later I learn that opportunistic schemers have turned moon cake vouchers into derivatives earning 20%.)

The second girl says in Basic English “you get ticket?”

“Yes, yes I want to buy a ticket.”
Then she says “No, you buy ticket at Häagen-Dazs.” 
Incredulously, “Isn’t this Häagen-Dazs?”
“No. Häagen-Dazs, outside.”
K8 saves the day (not to mention me from doing time), "I saw a Häagen-Dazs shop outside when we came in!"

Down we go four stories of escalators, braving the swollen crowds at the mall entrance reminiscent of December 24, at Macy’s on 34th. We make it outside, recomposed to secure our ticket and get back to the temple of moon cake. We get to the moon cake gatekeepers and try to find someone to help. Finally, someone to sell us our very own moon cake ticket approaches and affirms our intentions. As this new moon cake Venus attempts to execute the transaction her boss, a very stern woman, nixes the deal. I should have known, every institution has its Nurse Mildred Ratched. She admonishes Venus de Moon Cakes, who shyly informs us that there are no more moon cake tickets.

Kris reminds me “this is China.”
Exasperated “Brilliant!”

As we leave Häagen-Dazs we hit the Donut King a few doors down – they’re sold out. I refuse to consider 7-11 for anything other than a Slurpee or a cheap cigar. 

One last chance, Ichido.

A friendly and ambitious manager eager to exhibit his English (and pretty good at that) helps us. He informs us that we don’t need a ticket! He goes even further explaining that there is the traditional Chinese moon cake and the Shanghaiese version filled with coconut, which is sweeter (and frankly to a sugar freak, looks a heck of a lot more appetizing). Bowing to pressure to be the traditional romantic on our first Moon Festival I opt for the red bean, lotus root and white bean filled cakes. This conscientious manager even describes how to formally address the card on the hot pink box when making a gracious contribution at a Mid-Autumn (Moon) Festival. As mundane visions of properly constructed Chinese characters sedate me, I am awoken by the cha-ching of the cash register. Giddily, I pay without even considering the price how could I? Ichido saved the day!

Finally, Monday is here, it’s time to share the moon cakes.

K8 is already reminding that she doesn’t want the red bean filled cakes because those didn’t taste good at school. Now I’m a moon cake connoisseur with X-ray vision. Doing my best to avoid the red bean cakes, I cut into one, and then another, and another before revealing the luminescent, white bean filled moon cake. Turns out K8 doesn’t like white bean filled moon cakes either. Kris abdicates based on not eating sugar. Bravely, I try it, expecting the consistency of a moist cake only to be greeted by a mouth full of seemingly dry, mashed potatoes.

Uhmm well, swallowing hard, this is different.

Not convinced that I had spent 90 minutes in hot pursuit only to be underwhelmed, I tried the red bean cake with what looks like a quail’s egg yoke embedded in it – that’s a real prize. The semi-bitter, briny taste of the pasty, hard-boiled yoke balanced against the earthiness of an almost granular, dry, red bean paste is wasted on my uncultured palate and recoiling taste buds.

Being a hopeless romantic (K8 burps), I refuse to believe my highest hopes for luscious, sweet, moon cakes has been disrupted by what can be best described, as an anemic savory tart. Next year, I am committed to having a quaint little spot by the river staked out and my Häagen-Dazs tickets early.

Being a capitalist, I'll also try to work a deal with Pivot Capital Management – there may be a lucrative short to be had. 

* – Want China Times. 

© 2011 Karl Shaffer

Good Humor or just a bad joke?

They other day I was walking near the Shanghai International Financial Center (IFC). It was about 32ºC outside and so humid I needed an aqualung.

Slowly, a familiar tune fades up.

At first I kissed it off as a delusion of grandeur (something I feel quite lucky to have at my disposal while immersed in reality). I listened harder for the distant song and it sounded like the Disney classic "It's a small world". The music soon faded just as it had appeared and left me thinking "Hmmm, maybe we do share a few traditions with the Chinese, like just maybe the Good Humor Man (GHM)!"

The thought of a Chinese Good Humor truck amused me, picture it. A truck wallpapered with Chinese calligraphy and pictures of off-the-hook ice cream creations. There's something that vaguely resembles a Good Humor logo, and a 52 year-old American male running it down, trying to communicate with a Chinese GHM. Luckily the real deal closers are the pictures. Problem is the GHM is inside the truck thinking in Chinese and I'm outside the truck pointing at picture he can't see screaming in English. Who needs undecipherable Chinese calligraphy when you've got pictures? (Do you recognize an art director at heart in any language?)

Eardrums deep in a Dolby Surround sound daydream full of Good Humor baggage I'm floating.

I can't begin tell you how many times the GHM saved me. It started with my earliest memories at about age three or four. Occasionally, on summer Saturday evenings the GHM would show up to the dread of my parents right at bed time. My sisters and I did the ice cream dance and ran like hell for the door. If we were lucky we beat our dad to it, if we actually made it outside the house, it meant we would probably get the prize. (Those were the days before everyone gets an ice cream.) It generally required a little white lie to the GHM "please gimme one o' doze" as I pointed to a picture of a Strawberry Shortcake (words didn't mean much to me then either) while looking over my shoulder. He gave me a Chocolate Éclair. I had to hurry and stake my claim so I bit into the treat wrapper and all. I spit out "my mom and dad said it's OK" along with a mouth full of the coveted Éclair, "they're bwinging the money now".

What red-faced parent is going to tell a sticky four year old to put it back?

The most significant save at the hands of the GHM came in 2007 at Rockefeller Plaza. We were visiting NYC for the US Open Tennis Tournament and it was my evening to stay in the city with K8 (then 7 years old). After a nice Italian dinner, mmmm spaghetti, we'd been walking in 10 block circles for 2 hours trying to find the American Girl flagship store (conveniently camouflaged by a gigantic construction scaffolding a mere two blocks from where we started). On top of that I was sure I had a severe case of food poisoning, which actually turned out to be a 7mm kidney stone. Anyway, at the height of K8's anxiety and my "food poising" I finally talked her into an ice cream, never mind that I had no idea where the nearest Coldstone was. It sounded like the narcotic we both needed to kill all pains. As we sat at the east entrance to Rockefeller Center awaiting our second wind, out of nowhere a GHM pulls up accompanied by the Vienna Boys Choir's rendition of Hallelujah (' wish I was cool enough to have heard Leonard Cohn's version – C'est La Vie). Had I not been feeling like my intestines were destined for 5th Avenue I would have done the ice cream dance right there. 

My point: I have a place in my heart and right kidney for the GHM and the jones ain't gonna stop till the real thing hits the spot.

As time passed, my appetite hijacked my mind, each day of the week became known as Sunday – on a stick. Drumsticks even crept into the mix (a good jones transcends brands). And what about Toasted Almond?

Then yesterday I'm measuring the balcony to see what kind of dollhouse furniture might fit and there it was, that Mickey Mouse tune again. I thought "cool". I'm 18 stories high. I 'll be able to see it from blocks away and plan my assault. This time everything seemed right, I was even hearing Leonard Cohn. As I scanned the high-rise riddled landscape I could hear the music getting louder and louder but I couldn't see the GHM. I was starting to panic, thinking that my alter reality had gotten the best of me again. It couldn't be another !@#%* delusion. It just could not be. This really wasn't the time for a flashback. 

And then right in front of me I see it and it isn't funny.

Chinese good humor at its best – a water truck.

Good thing I didn't make it out the door. 

© 2011 Karl Shaffer