Slow Travel

 “The world went and got itself in a big damn hurry”.

The Shawshank Redemption.

The air has been clear from this month’s rain: a cool blessing for us but one that spells big trouble for the people of the Yangtze watershed. The locals in Shanghai make use of their colorful umbrellas whether the forecast reads rain or shine, and after a month I’ve learned to hold the umbrella aloft while pushing the stroller one handed up and down bumpy streets. Though last week during a “storm” I was scolded not once, but twice, for not positioning the umbrella properly over Emperor E’s head while waiting at an intersection. I’ve been similarly chided for E’s visible mosquito bites, a problem we’ve rectified with a proper net contraption (his crib sits on top of the bed).

The good news is that we’ve finally discovered the police presence in China. On the Metro I have declined generous offers to take the seat of Chinese women only to be told through pantomime that the decision is not mine to make. Sit. And so I do. Some ladies have even leaned over and removed E’s mitt from his mouth while shaking their heads “no”. Wide-eyed, the little boy stops. This afternoon we purchased some nail clippers from a sunny street vendor from Xinxiang Province who illustrated the correct way for me to carry my backpack. Not unlike E, we are toddlers learning the ropes in a new world and despite minor frustrations we must ditch our egos and play humble ambassador.

When not busy grumbling about the manuscript I have to revise, E and I have also been busy shopping for things we just don’t need but must now have. We had three - count ‘em – three silk dress shirts made for the Engineer in the Bund textile market, a teeming tower of fabric stalls where fashion dreams come true for a small price. Most markets in the city require stiff bargaining and while this can be a deterrent, the process is also a prime opportunity to practice one’s poker face and some basic Mandarin. Foreigners sometimes experience the ugly duckling complex in Asia, feeling disproportionately large amidst a sea of svelte, young, I-can-wear-anything-and-still look good locals. I find this particularly true in the Textile Market where prices rise if “more material is needed”. Julia, our tailor, reacted as if I was married to Paul Bunyan when we outlined the Engineer’s measurements and I was horrified when she examined the girth of a skirt that needed duplication.

Next weekend we take the slow boat to Osaka, and the Engineer will travel with us one way of the journey. We’ve become fascinated with slow travel – trains, ferries, buses, freighters –though law requires that we wait until E is at least five until he’s permitted to board a freighter, with some ships requiring passengers to be twelve years of age. Let’s face it – the kid would be disgusted if we took him for a ride on container ship and he was too young to remember the joyful experience of vomiting overboard.

Until then, the A Year With No Flying blog highlights, among other journeys, a trip across the Pacific by freighter. It’s worth checking out if you’ve got some time and are prepared to turn green with vagabonding jealousy.