things i notice in shanghai

scenes from being stranded for twelve days.

I once lived in a small apartment on the tree-lined streets of Shanghai’s former French Concession. A decade later, I returned for a 22 hour layover. During this time, I lost hearing in my left ear, leading to a 12 day stay. These observations form the inaugural post in a new series, things i notice.

—

My friend is 29 and wears an ink-black dress that seems to be a natural extension of her long black hair. Her cheeks tense as she talks about her ex, listing the many ways the Ohio boy was bad for her. She shakes her head, a stunned look on her face, as if these problems were both unsolvable and unbelievable. She says he's leaving tonight—a hint of nervousness in her voice—and then picks up her phone, looks at me, puts it under the table, and starts to text. The restaurant is dark, moody even, with soft, hip, unplaceable indie music. The phone lights up part of her face, leaving a twinkle in her eye.

'Sorry' she says.

Talking again, she explains he loved Midwest Emo, and a look of nostalgia creeps across her face. The phone vibrates. She instantly replies, and says he is on the flight to London. I ask if he writes emo songs.

'No,' she says. 'He just likes the music.'

I don't say it, but I can't help but think that it is a waste to love emo and go through a breakup without writing a song about it. Maybe, if its devastating enough, he will learn to play guitar, I think.

She texts him again, and I imagine them both on a craggy mountain in the midst of a storm, sharp rock to their right and a perilous drop to their left. At a dead end, fog all around, they hold back tears as they slowly, carefully, help each other find a safe place to part.

—

The doctor smiles with care and concern, as she tells me my left ear will not be able to hear well for days, possibly over a week, and that I won't be able to leave Shanghai anytime soon.

I look out the window, and see a kaleidoscope of office workers, each framed by a rectangular pane of glass.

The pressure changes from flying, she explains, pausing to sip from her cup of tea, would rupture my left eardrum, and possibly the right one too.

—

I stay at a nice hotel where the staff are always motioning me into elevators, or picking up my empty plates. The breakfast room is bright, near the top floor, with an expansive view of the old French Concession. In front of us is the Shanghai Exhibition Center, an all white, palatial Soviet-style building with an enormous spire topped with a red star that shines at night.

'Would you like some more orange juice?' asks a well-dressed, impossibly polite employee.

For a brief moment, I wonder when the last time someone poured her orange juice was, and whether she sits alone at home, wishing someone would do for her what she does for others all day. I wish, I think, that I could pour orange juice for her, and suddenly the act of pouring juice becomes strangely intimate.

I say yes, and as the juice enters my cup, I thank her, but too much, out of guilt, and it becomes awkward.

I realize I'm uncomfortable being cared for but unable to care in return, especially in my particular circumstances—half deaf, recovering, stranded and unable to leave Shanghai.

—

I see an old man wearing a new soccer jersey:

I wonder if it feels strange for him to wear the clothes of someone who was born when he was over 40.

Is this his way of feeling young again? Or does wearing the name of a multimillionaire twenty five year-old on his back make him feel as if his time has impossibly gone?

His expression is calm. I get up, and walk away.

As I leave, I realize he might not even be a soccer fan.

—

At a grocery store I see orange juice for sale, and feel a slight pang of loneliness.

—

Walking by at dusk, I catch a glimpse of a Chinese bartender, in shorts and a tank top, sweating in the Shanghai summer heat. Unshaven, semi balding, half covered in tattoos, he smiles as he shakes his head listening to a pop rock song from the 1980s.

—

I meet an ethnically Chinese woman born and raised in Europe. I can't believe it, but there is something Nordic about the way she smiles, which is impossible to describe but just as impossible to ignore.

I begin to wonder how obvious my American-ness is.

I sit in a quiet bar and see a young Chinese man with dyed-blonde hair tied up in a small bun. He has pink AirPods Max on the table, and sits alone and awkward, as if he is waiting for someone to allow him to feel welcomed. Still recovering, I order a mocktail, and slowly drink it.

He remains alone for these twenty minutes, and I leave.

—

I still cannot hear in my left ear. The hotel staff ask me a question at breakfast, but I say I cannot hear them, and turn my head. Embarrassed and apologetic, they ask me again—despite now knowing the answer: 'How are you? Better yet?'

I realize victimhood is a kind of armor, where I cannot be asked to do certain things, and others are expected to feel sorry for me. The staff that know are extra kind. But I am in this world temporarily, and the brief, armored protection it gives me must weigh like a chain for someone with a permanent disability.

—

I meet my friend again for lunch. She's blocked the Ohio boy.

"Everywhere," she says.

I ask her what happened.

"He liked the photo of a girl I hate. And he knows I hate her, too."

"Fucking bitch." she mutters, lightly shaking her head.

The quiet, tree-lined streets of the old French Concession are made more silent by my hearing loss. I expect to feel nostalgia for the six months I lived here.

Instead, it feels dreamlike and disconnected from any time in my life.

—

In the hotel elevator, a little girl, no older than five yells “That foreigner is so scary!” in Chinese, and grabs her mother’s legs, pressing her face into her knee.

“You don’t have to fear foreigners,” I say, “we are all friends.”

“He speaks Chinese!” she yells, even louder than before.

“Tell him good morning.” her mother calmly says, patting her on the head.

—

I meet an old friend of 15 years. He is stable, with a wife and two kids, while I am unmarried, but only a year or so younger. Yet there is some sort of unspoken understanding between us. Everything about this friendship is richer and deeper than new friendships, but that same depth reminds us that we were once new friends—only teenagers, and now, we are closer to 40 than 20. I suppose this merely adds to the background noise—usually only a whisper—that we will age and die.

Still, having old friends to die with is far preferable to dying alone.

That night, when I am about to sleep, I think of planets and space, and how wrong it is that we are trapped on a ball amidst so much nothingness.

It's fucked up, I think, before drifting away.

—

The next morning, after English fails, I speak passable but basic Chinese to a young woman. A sense of warmth and acceptance appears on her face, reminding me everyone just wants to be understood.