O sole mio

“O sole mio, sta ‘nfronte a te” – My own sun – it’s in your face!

To attend the Beijing Olympics a multi-step process initiated 6 months ahead of time was required. First, one must reserve a hotel room or place to stay, second, book airline tickets, third, apply for and obtain a visa, and last but not least, get some event tickets! Seems simple enough, but demand was strong and supplies limited. Capitalism is alive and well in China! Since the best hotels were fully booked by tour agencies and business clients, we settled on renting an apartment close to public transport. Airline tickets were available if your dates were flexible and the visa process went without a hitch.

But what about event tickets? Lots of sports to choose from and venues to explore. I closed the door to my study one day as the online tickets sales were rumored to begin sometime that afternoon. As usual, the web site was unclear about exactly when the excitement would begin, but after several hours of waiting the “click here to purchase tickets button” materialized, and I was off to the races. An intense timed session, of online ticketing with strict rules and limits, produced a good crop of track and field, basketball, baseball, volleyball and even boxing tickets, but no swimming, diving, ping pong or even badminton tickets were available in quantity, after the initial lotteries distributed most of the prized tickets on a random basis – lady luck was not on my side.

And what about the ultimate ticket quarry, namely, “the opening ceremony”? (Zhang Yi Mo, the famous Chinese director, had put together a show befitting Beijing’s multi-billion dollar welcome party for the world) these tickets were simply unobtainable through normal channels in any quantity. Resellers were getting several thousand dollars a piece for single tickets -one was reported to have changed hands for 210,000 RMB that’s about $35,000. I resigned myself to watching the opening ceremonies on TV – I will get a better view with professional multi-camera perspectives I rationalized, but deep down I knew the truth, I was going to miss one of the most historically memorable shows on earth. So close, so far, so unsatisfied.

Day three in Beijing started out with a beautiful sun, blue sky and puffy white clouds. I had put the ticket madness behind me months ago, and I had a neatly filled out a calendar with venues and events clearly marked with spreadsheet precision. Nothing on my schedule today I thought, except meeting some dear friends that came to see me from a city in central China. It was to be a time of eating, laughter and an informal exchange of family news. We met them at a wonderful restaurant and immediately dove into mountains of food that seemed to flow endlessly from the kitchen. There were spicy cabbages, delicate greens, duck, pork, beef and fish dishes that were as beautiful to look at as they were to eat.

We were soon introduced to a couple who were professional artists – one an opera singer, the other a well-established painter. They were old friends of our good friends and we were treated like family. They formed part of an elaborate “guan xi” network of friends and colleagues that I have heard is necessary to live a good life in China. We continued with lot’s of small talk and even more eating and then our new friends invited us to their home for a music session. The opera singer held classes each afternoon, would we like to stop over and observe, he asked? What a silly question, of course we would – clearly he didn’t quite appreciate that I had some Italian ancestors!

We all taxied over to a tall high rise building and entered their new apartment. After sipping some Pu’ er tea, the first students arrived and the warm-up session started. One student played the piano as the other methodically climbed and descended the scale with a voice that filled the room with controlled intensity. I sat next to the teacher who gently offered advice to improve the nuance of the notes being delivered with powerful vibrato and emotional phrasing. Soon another student arrived and then another. Before long I had witnessed and savored some of the best voices Beijing had to offer (I found out later that they all had appeared on CCTV from time to time). The 7^th student was from Sichuan and he had a voice from heaven. After singing several modern Chinese pieces he launched into O sole mio. Earlier I had noticed a Chinese book about Pavarotti on the table in the living room, little did I know that Western opera was a key part of their training. As I sat next to the teacher in the small room, literally thigh-to-thigh with the “lao shi” (respected teacher), I closed my eyes and lost myself in the music. Soon I began to sing along (imperceptibly quiet – so I thought) but the ear of the master picked up the telltale notes and stopped the music …Oh my goodness what have I done!

In Chinese, he quickly asked me how I liked the music, and I with racing heartbeat replied it was the music of my ancestors. He then asked me to join the student in front of the assemblage of family, friends and apprentices. I hoped for a quick and painless death. The music began and we sang together note for note as I tried to match the student who was my newfound musical guardian. After a few bars my nerves settled and the music once again cast its spell. The audience sat in rapt attention just as the song headed for the notes that signaled “beware entering tenor territory”. I could feel the adrenaline flowing and the music rising in pitch with unstoppable momentum. I reached for that A note singing from as deep down as I could reach… to everyone’s amazement, not the least my own, it came out clear and strong. The teacher shouted “he’s a tenor he’s a tenor – too bad you wasted your life being a scientist”. Everyone laughed and applauded and I was quickly surrounded by all the other students who joined in the fun by the piano. Luciano would have smiled.

A few documentary pictures later, and we were saying our goodbyes to our new found friends. As we assembled by the street and the students dispersed in all directions, my old friend was on the cell phone again. Nothing unusual, everyone is always on the cell phone in China. But this time was different. She leaned over to me and said “would you like to see the opening ceremonies tonight?” What? It was August 2^nd and the Olympics didn’t start until the 8^th I thought naively. Well it turns out that for an event the magnitude of the Olympics you need to practice, and tonight was the full dress rehearsal! Little had I known that our new opera teacher friend was one of the opening ceremony directors! I was speechless for a second, and then came to my senses. Of course I want to go – just like 1 or 2 billion other people who didn’t make it through the lottery. There might be a single ticket she intimated, but we wouldn’t know for sure until about 5 minutes before the scheduled start time. We would have to go directly to the stadium now and wait outside the gate for another call. Couldn’t I send Joey?, I asked. No it was not wise to send him by himself, they said, since only one ticket might materialize. So I said my hasty goodbyes and off to the “birds nest” I went with Italian Arias still dancing in my head.

The traffic was intense as we closed in on the stadium. We were quickly running out of time so we stopped the cab and walked the last half mile or so through a sea of people assembling to try and catch a glimpse of the anticipated fireworks display- word was spreading fast. We took up our position and waited outside the chain link fence cordoned off by successive rows of volunteers, ticket checkers, security guards and finally Chinese military men in full uniform. After a few quick “I was here” snapshots by my hosts, the cell phone rang and a very long-winded conversation ensued. Lots of discussion (that I couldn’t follow at the pace it was delivered) and then an abrupt end to the call.

Nice try I thought. It was still exciting being in the surging crowd, gazing upon the translucent blue cube (the aquatic center) in front of us, and seeing the national stadium (Birds’ Nest) lit up like an apparition from another future time and place. Then I caught the smile directed towards me from my friend and I knew I had just been granted the ultimate Olympic-sized bragging rights. In a moment and without a word “The ticket” arrived by a nondescript courier in a small brown paper envelope. I gingerly accepted the priceless gift from my friend and peered inside. It was really there – a single official ticket. Time was running out, there was no time for the extensive thank you’s I needed to deliver. I was slipped into the security line and herded along with a mass of Chinese humanity. No foreigners in these lines- this was the special show for the hometown crowd. I finally fully understood the real meaning and importance of “guan xi” – networks and relationships and “mian zi” – face in Chinese culture.

As I ascended the stadium stairs I couldn’t help singing over and over…

O Sole Mio

Che bella cosa na jurnata ‘e sole,
n’aria serena doppo na tempesta!
Pe’ ll’aria fresca pare già na festa…
Che bella cosa na jurnata ‘e sole.

Ma n’atu sole
cchiù bello, oje ne’.
O sole mio
sta ‘nfronte a te!
O sole
O sole mio
sta ‘nfronte a te!
sta ‘nfronte a te!

What a wonderful thing a sunny day
The serene air after a thunderstorm
The fresh air, and a party is already going on…
What a wonderful thing a sunny day.

But another sun,
that’s brighter still
It’s my own sun
that’s in your face!
The sun, my own sun

It’s in your face!
It’s in your face!

Morning walk

Stalking the streets of Beijing

Morning comes early- it’s “light enough” at 5:30 by my standards and I can’t wait to see Beijing in the morning. I grab my camera and cash and quietly slip out the door to mingle with the local citizens as they gear up for another day in a city of 17 million people. I decide a quick reconnaissance is in order, and head for the main avenue and make my way around the apartment grounds in a grand loop. I pass the ever present line of taxis waiting for the first clients of a new day, and then I spy my first camera quarry, first at a distance, but then at close range – I quickly notice they are all around me – where should I point the lens first. The white ones are closing in on me with four elderly women in close proximity- the brown one is alongside a very large Beijing ren (Native Beijinger) with his shirt rolled up above his belly- a common site on muggy summer days. I think I better not intrude upon their privacy so soon- I am still a little nervous out on the street by myself, jet-lagged and excited at the same time.
I settle on an easy target a little brown one coming at me at a leisurely pace. I check the shutter speed, raise the viewfinder to my eye and pop off three shots in rapid succession. He was defenseless, no minder to shoo me away or wag a finger at my intrusive behavior- his mug shot was going on my blog whether he liked it or not. I never realized how passionate the Beijing people are about them, but now I know and so do you. Can you blame them – they are so cute!

Everyone likes a morning stroll

It's a dog's life!

Gated Communities

Large gates indicate status

The quality of life in Beijing is defined in large part by where you live. Gated communities with uniformed security is a must have – not so much for security (China’s major cities are among the safest in the world) but for establishing your status and position. There are communities for government officials, homes for military personnel, enclaves for businessmen and international oases for expats and visitors. However, no matter where you live you must register with the authorities. Like for everything else in China there is a specific process to be followed. In our case, we are first issued building occupant identity cards and our door keys, then we hand over our passports to our apartment lady and she is off to the local police authorities to file the appropriate forms – I thought my first language practice exercises should be directed at non-uniformed citizens. She reappears in an hour, returns our passports and bids us a friendly “Zai jian” – goodbye.

The stainless steel is calling me

Our apartment is modern and spotless. A stainless steel applianced kitchen makes me want to run immediately to the supermarket so I can test fire the oven that has clearly never been used! I have been thinking about food ever since that 99 cent serving of instant noodles served somewhere over Mongolia (that qualified as lunch, or was it breakfast?) on United Airlines. Decisions, Decisions.

We decide to divide and conquer; I work on getting the wireless router, satellite TV and VPN established, while J and J set out to size up the shopping opportunities; food is clearly on everyone’s mind. The 50 inch plasma TV yields quickly to semi-random button pushing on the three remote controls labeled with hundreds of Chinese characters. I decide that this is not the time to look up every new character I see and I flip through the 100+ channels and verify we have NBC sports coverage so that we don’t have to watch 40 hours of continuous badminton and ping pong programming (although they are two of my families favorites?!).

Next, I tackle the Internet and get a great wireless signal. Too bad the proxy settings don’t work. Once again my approach of trial and error succeeds and I am soon surfing the “hù lián wǎng” – the Internet. Next I tackle the new logon process, which goes smoothly- amazing – I quickly say a prayer of thanks to the IT gods. A few perfunctory E-mails later and I am in the kitchen making tea with some emergency stocks we brought from home (It seemed funny to bring tea to China, but I have no doubts about the genius of the decision now). “Long jing” – dragon well green tea tastes great and gives me the energy boost I need to unpack all the new pots, pans, rice cooker, induction hot plate, chopping knives, cutting board and small appliances my landlady acquired for me. I am so glad I told her I was going to cookeveryday- Clearly I was in an untouched virgin kitchen space – about to be seasoned with an international blend of pungent spices, flavored vinegars, soy sauces, searing hot peppers and extracts that would forever leave my mark- all my Sichuan friends, I thought, would be proud of me.

As Jill and Joey returned from the market, the aroma of fresh garlic quickly reassured me that I was definitely going to be happy here! “Chi, Chi, Chi” (eat, eat, eat) the famous Chinese refrain was echoing in my ears. “Gentlemen start your engines,” I whispered to myself as I flicked a gas stove control knob to its maximum throttle position – let the Games begin (please hum Olympic theme song here)!

Thanks for the ride!

A shiny new ride to your door.

Taxi Time

….. Now that customs was behind us and a comfortable apartment was waiting, we all pushed ahead quickly to get into the anticipated line in order to wait for a taxi. In Shanghai waiting for a taxi can be a semi-contact sport as overanxious travelers vie for the incoming cars with reckless abandon. For the unsuspecting tourist (they know who you are) unofficial “guides” are standing by to show you how to avoid the line and pay a 2-3X premium by grabbing a car before it enters the official pick-up zone and surreptitiously making a side deal with the driver (no meter is used). Having run the taxi gauntlet in Shanghai many times we thought we were ready for anything. We put on our most stern faces and were ready to fend off unwanted help with a sharp “Bu Yao” – Don’t want any! But to our astonishment there was nothing but a quickly moving queue of only two customers in front of us at the curb, where clearly marked numbers on the pavement showed both cars and passengers where to stop and load up. The unexpected efficiency left me with no time to prepare my notes or practice saying the address. Instead, I just helped load up the vehicle and jumped in the back with one suitcase and the camera equipment placed in the passenger seat next to the driver. We started to roll, so I read off the address and handed our driver a piece of paper with the address clearly written in Chinese characters. With a simple “hao” – good, we were on our way, hopefully to our rendezvous with the apartment handler.

Beijing taxi drivers are world famous for being chatty and well informed. They love to talk about sports, weather, politics, museums, city life, restaurants and many other subjects. They are also not shy about giving you their analysis of any situation you may be curious about – even things you didn’t know you were curious about. However, in order to get the most out of the discussion you should speak Mandarin because they don’t speak English! Before starting the conversation we rolled down the windows and let the steamy afternoon air wash over us. It felt good to feel some wind on our faces even if it was hot. I started our taxi conversation with an international standby – namely, comments about the weather. First we discussed how the temperature was 33 degrees centigrade today (last week was really hot we discovered) and next I described how tired we were. As we paid the toll upon leaving the airport terminal, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before in Beijing – no traffic jam. The driver maintained a consistent pace of 100km/hr and let other private cars and trucks pass us on both sides. Through a sleep deprivation induced haze we admired the dense plantings of trees and ornamental plants all the way into the city. Most of the major street signs were in both Hanzi (Chinese characters) and English! Along the side of the road we saw many new official Olympic Games information booths manned by volunteer students. Before long we were on a street that I recognized. I gave a couple of last minute course corrections to target the entrance nearest our apartment building and without a hitch we were unloading our luggage. 62 RMB (6.6 to the dollar) and a perfunctory “Xie Xie”, thank you, sent the taxi driver on his way and I never got the chance to ask him what he thought about the Olympics. Another quick call to the apartment lady allowed us to easily make eye contact outside the lobby as we were both performing the “cell phone pirouette”. My wife quickly verified that the woman really didn’t speak english, but no matter, we were highly motivated to get inside and she was very friendly.

As the key turned the lock tumblers and the door pushed open to our apartment, a sense of relief, excitement and satisfaction rushed over us- we actually were going to see the Olympics!

Beijing Airport

Understated elegance at a grand scale

Day 2 Beijing is Ready

Our 747 makes an effortless landing and we see the definitive puffs of smoke spiral past the windows signalling our arrival. The engines quickly reverse thrust and the brakes slow us to a leisurely pace as we taxi across the tarmac. The new Beijing airport looms large and bright giving the weary passengers a needed incentive to gather up their belongings and march into the cavernous terminal with polished granite floors and a suspended ceiling that seems to suspend even engineering principles. The curved roof lines flow like the back of a large mythical creature and no one misses the symbolism – we are definitley in the Land of the Dragon.

With some foreboding we head to the immigration queues but to our astonishment the lines are missing – so many officials are ready for us that our line is only 2 people deep. The forms are quickly retrieved from our carry-ons and stuffed into our passports. With a quick swipe through the magnetic reader, a quick look at our visas and a pleasant smile our immigration agent waves us through and we quicken our pace to the automated transport car that wisks us efficiently to the luggage claim area. We make a beeline to the carts and roll down the sparking stone floors that are so shiny that they look wet. As we pull up to the carousel our luggage is immediately spotted coming towards us with no waiting! We pinch ourselves in disbelief and load up the carts- to the custom screening area we go. We point our accelerating carts to the green “nothing to declare” aisle and hope for the best. Just as we think we have made it through unscathed a young agent steps in front and politely asks us to put the large camera bag through the X-ray machine. As it pops out the other side we quickly collect it without a word and silently make our way out into the arrival waiting room where hundreds of patient people with a myriad of fluttering signs strain to make contact with the apporpriate visitor.

We however are on our own. No need for an interpreter, no need for a driver – we were going to take a taxi! Two years of studying Chinese would be put to the test, and not on paper. For part I of the trial a cellphone call had to be placed to a Chinese native who would meet us at our apartment. I was warned “that she speaks no English”. No problem I thought 2 months ago when I first made the arrangements – now what was that funny feeling in my stomach – an undigested United Airlines snack perhaps? I preferred not to contemplate the alternatives. I quickly fired up the Nokia and launched a direct call to my unsuspecting Chinese language evaluator. The connection was ringing, then a voice on the other end, my turn now ”Wei” (Hello ) I blurted out – so far so good I thought, my pulse quickened …. “Women dao le.”  (We have arrived” I declared with satisfaction.  As I continued to verify my identity and set a time to meet “liu shi fen zhong zuo you” 60 minutes more or less I saw the relieved and satisfied look on my wife’s face – yes we would have a place to stay tonight! Part II of my exam now awaited me- The Beijing taxi driver…..

“At the Top of the World”

A fragile cover down below

Day 1 A 747 “bottle rocket”

4:00 A.M always comes sooner than you like. Off to the airport with minimal luggage 1 bag and a carry-on each -plus an extra bag of camera and electronic equipment. Albany airport was busy with lines at security backed up with so many twists it makes us dizzy. A cup of “Joe”and a slice of nut-bread clears the cobwebs and we are off to Washington Dulles for a connecting flight to Beijing. We stock up on sandwiches and snacks for the 14+ hours of economy section bliss stationed in the next to last row of seats on the plane. At least we are together.

Our 747- 400 is an old one. No flat panels TV’s just those funky CRT’s that dangle from the ceiling and the projection screen that has a color rendition that would make Andy Warhol jealous. As we lumber down the runway I can’t keep my mind off oxygen bottles and how happy I am to be sitting in the back of the plane away from the recently defined “Qantas debris zone”.

Up and away and before you know it we have dug into the emergency snacks and read all the airline magazines. Time to meet our fellow travelers; a large high school group from China is going home after several weeks of camping and touring around the U.S.. Their take-away impression “…the U.S. is very clean.

We talk our way across the north pole and marvel at the polar ice cap. It’s still there but lots of cracks are forming. Jostling for a turn at the rear windows in the door for photo opportunities passes the hours except for the occasional “please return to your seats as we test the structural integrity of this plane with rapid accelerations directed along successive axes of orientation.” It still amazes me how fast a 747 can “wiggle” in the air. No casualties except for a few cups of water sprinkled about.

As Beijing appears on the map, the movie watchers eyes are red and bleary. Sleep has finally come to the dedicated travelers but they must interrupt their fitful rest with the arrival of “the landing form ceremony”. Whispers of flight numbers and the rustle of passport pages fill the air and lead to a keen sense of anticipation. Touchdown at the new Beijing airport is imminent!