Trip Report: Lijiang
We drove through red fields, between mountains and through villages, through some tunnels so long that we couldn’t see the other end when we entered. Our bus stopped at a rest stop where we could use the troth latrines (the smell was amazing—it made me dizzy) and were fed a very scary meal (I focused on the white rice. Everything else was completely unidentifiable. Was it meat? Vegetable? Pickled? It was hard to say) Finally, after a ten hour ride, we arrived in Lijiang. I had plowed through my book.
It was late—10pm—and we didn’t have a hotel reservation. Fortunately, we were met at the bus stop by two women who run a guesthouse in the old town. We decided to check it out. The Tang Jia Ge Guesthouse is a lovely courtyard guesthouse run by three generations of a family. It had comfortable rooms and foreigner guests and good food. The matriarch is a little old lady in an indigo blue wool hat who doesn’t speak a word of English (not even “toilet paper”). She laughs all the times except when she is yelling at her son. And when she screams at him, it is not in Mandarin but in something I’ve never heard before. The youngest family member is a three or four year old boy who scatters his toys across the courtyard, is shy around the guests, and hangs on his fathers arm whenever he gets the chance.
Lijiang is a delightful little town. It is a maze of cobblestone streets interwoven with clean, running canals. Occasionally we’d have to fight our way through a tight crowd of Chinese tourists in matching baseball hats, following a flag-bearing, megaphone wielding guide. Aside from that occasional madness, we were outnumbered by cute spherical little old ladies in matching indigo blue clothes, hauling, on their backs, baskets of fresh vegetable and the occasional grandchild. The old ladies had deeply wrinkled tan faces, milky eyes, and beautiful smiles.
The night we arrived, hurrying along the road, on our way to the guesthouse, we walked by a stall that appearing to have yarn for sale. The next night, armed with the characters for “wool yarn” and “cashmere” and my phrasebook, I set out for the yarn stall. It wasn’t easy to find because only the right side of the stall sold yarn (and was visible from only one direction); the left side of the stall was a pharmacy/first aid station. I marched into the stall and had a look at the three shelves of yarn. The top was obviously polyester—it was that colorful ribbony stuff that people make useless scarves out of (that would melt if you got too close to the fireplace on a chilly night). The second shelf appeared to be cotton—bright colors, not very fuzzy. The third shelf, well I had to ask the two ladies working there. It was wool. From what they said (ha ha. All in Chinese), it appeared to be 100% wool yarn. I had four colors to choose from—blackish, light greenish, grayish and blueish. I asked what the price was and they said 55 yuan per something. I wasn’t sure if it was per skein or kilo or what. But that’s reasonable cheap.
I also wanted to get some needles. My phrasebook had the words “syringe needle” and “sewing needle” but not knitting needle. I tried to explain what I wanted but was met with laughter and a knitting lesson instead. In the middle of my knitting lesson, a group of young men walked in, one of whom was seeking medical attention. He had had his finger severed at the top knuckle and needed gauze. I patiently waited while they patched him up and asked his friend if he knew the word I was looking for. Finally, I got my point across and got some needles as well. Behold: five giant skeins (enough for a Paul Bunyun sweater), 140 yuan.
Finding our way through Lijiang, I felt like Alice trying to get through Wonderland. There are no street signs and the street maps aren’t labeled with your location. Streets twist around randomly and are small enough that external landmarks are impossible to find. Just when you think you’re going somewhere, you end up at a dead end.
Add another layer of complexity to the confusion with me trying to cooperate with Mike (and get him to cooperate with me) and, well, this was not good for our relationship. If he does not understand that I am like Zeus when it comes to finding my way through a new city, how can he possibly understand the depths of my soul?!?
There was a lot of bickering.Then there were a lot of icy stares and dirty looks. It wasn’t pretty.
It was late—10pm—and we didn’t have a hotel reservation. Fortunately, we were met at the bus stop by two women who run a guesthouse in the old town. We decided to check it out. The Tang Jia Ge Guesthouse is a lovely courtyard guesthouse run by three generations of a family. It had comfortable rooms and foreigner guests and good food. The matriarch is a little old lady in an indigo blue wool hat who doesn’t speak a word of English (not even “toilet paper”). She laughs all the times except when she is yelling at her son. And when she screams at him, it is not in Mandarin but in something I’ve never heard before. The youngest family member is a three or four year old boy who scatters his toys across the courtyard, is shy around the guests, and hangs on his fathers arm whenever he gets the chance.
Lijiang is a delightful little town. It is a maze of cobblestone streets interwoven with clean, running canals. Occasionally we’d have to fight our way through a tight crowd of Chinese tourists in matching baseball hats, following a flag-bearing, megaphone wielding guide. Aside from that occasional madness, we were outnumbered by cute spherical little old ladies in matching indigo blue clothes, hauling, on their backs, baskets of fresh vegetable and the occasional grandchild. The old ladies had deeply wrinkled tan faces, milky eyes, and beautiful smiles.
The night we arrived, hurrying along the road, on our way to the guesthouse, we walked by a stall that appearing to have yarn for sale. The next night, armed with the characters for “wool yarn” and “cashmere” and my phrasebook, I set out for the yarn stall. It wasn’t easy to find because only the right side of the stall sold yarn (and was visible from only one direction); the left side of the stall was a pharmacy/first aid station. I marched into the stall and had a look at the three shelves of yarn. The top was obviously polyester—it was that colorful ribbony stuff that people make useless scarves out of (that would melt if you got too close to the fireplace on a chilly night). The second shelf appeared to be cotton—bright colors, not very fuzzy. The third shelf, well I had to ask the two ladies working there. It was wool. From what they said (ha ha. All in Chinese), it appeared to be 100% wool yarn. I had four colors to choose from—blackish, light greenish, grayish and blueish. I asked what the price was and they said 55 yuan per something. I wasn’t sure if it was per skein or kilo or what. But that’s reasonable cheap.
I also wanted to get some needles. My phrasebook had the words “syringe needle” and “sewing needle” but not knitting needle. I tried to explain what I wanted but was met with laughter and a knitting lesson instead. In the middle of my knitting lesson, a group of young men walked in, one of whom was seeking medical attention. He had had his finger severed at the top knuckle and needed gauze. I patiently waited while they patched him up and asked his friend if he knew the word I was looking for. Finally, I got my point across and got some needles as well. Behold: five giant skeins (enough for a Paul Bunyun sweater), 140 yuan.
Finding our way through Lijiang, I felt like Alice trying to get through Wonderland. There are no street signs and the street maps aren’t labeled with your location. Streets twist around randomly and are small enough that external landmarks are impossible to find. Just when you think you’re going somewhere, you end up at a dead end.
Add another layer of complexity to the confusion with me trying to cooperate with Mike (and get him to cooperate with me) and, well, this was not good for our relationship. If he does not understand that I am like Zeus when it comes to finding my way through a new city, how can he possibly understand the depths of my soul?!?
There was a lot of bickering.Then there were a lot of icy stares and dirty looks. It wasn’t pretty.
posted by Michelle at 5:55 a.m.
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