Informal Ode

There are many things I admire about this city and its residents.  I like that giving up your seat to and elderly person on the subway is still the obvious thing to do.  Since I’ve found myself consistently on the good side of the law, I like that there are police officers and guards stationed every couple hundred yards along the road.  They give good directions and don’t act upset when I ask for them in very broken Mandarin.  I really like that I can buy an incredible range of films, including a vast majority of the Criterion Collection, for $1.50 a piece.  I love never knowing what I’m going to get when I walk into a dvd shop.  A few days ago, I entered a small store (one 9x12 room) and left with a Sirk film, a Carol Reed, a Hawks, and a de Sica.  I passed up films by Abel Gance, Buster Keaton, Top Hat, a slew of contemporary and classic Chinese films, etc.  (Someday I’ll probably post on how a good Chinese DVD store is like a good woman... a compliment to both women and movies.)

 

All those things are great, but my favorite Beijing institution so far is the city park.  My university is about a quarter mile south of a long, skinny park whose name is roughly translated as Yuan Dynasty Wall Park.  As the name implies, the park follows the location of one of the city’s many historical walls, thus the slender (only 200m deep), extended (after walking for over a mile and a half, I’ve yet to find the eastern end) layout.  On the map it looks like a yard stick of green bordered by white roads and yellow residential areas.

 

A canal running the length of the park splits the already slim landscape into two sections.  The southern side takes up roughly ¾ of the total depth, leaving the northern side with only 50m of width.  At the center of the southern slice run two stone pathways that function as the central arteries for the grounds.  Although they are solid paths, they are not perfectly straight, or even level through the whole park.  They rise and fall, curve and straighten along with the landscape.  Branching out from these two paths are dozens of smaller dirt paths that weave through the trees and across beautifully-kept lawns.  Trees surround and cover the vast majority of the park, trees of all sizes and shapes.  Those with low branches function as living walls; those with higher branches build green roofs over the paths.  Some trees have clearly been there for decades, if not centuries.  Others are so new as to be still supported by wooden beams.  The diversity of species is beautiful and ensures an unpredictable walk.  Or mostly unpredictable.  Cradling each meter of each side of the canal are the weeping willows.  Although their gentle arcs are lovely during the day, the depth of their beauty is revealed in the evenings when the lights illuminate their pendulous branches from underneath, and what was green, glows yellow. 

 

Trees hang over the canal, the benches, the stone tables and chairs, the placid pools, the green grass, the dirt paths, the tan sculptures, and the flat stone areas.  And underneath the trees, the people come and go.  They sit, stand, lay, walk, kick, hit, throw, and dance. 

 

In the morning, the elderly practice taiqi.  The children jump from bench to bench.  Middle-aged women kick jianzi (look it up) back and forth with enough skill to make an amateur soccer player like me blush.  At night, the park teems with people of all ages, and every square inch of landscape finds its purpose.  On the flat areas, large assemblies of middle aged men and women ballroom dance to classical and new age music played softly on a boombox.  Small crowds watch as the pairs move in gentle curves around one another.  On the stone tables and chairs, old men play cards.  Their speech is loud and punctuated with constant laughter, and whenever a card is played it is raised high above the head and then slapped down with extreme prejudice.  The card smack and staccato hollers of the men blend into a sort of percussive composition.  On the shaded benches, young lovers intertwine, whisper, and kiss, laying on their sides for hours.  Underneath lamps, chairs are set up and mini-orchestras (sextets, octets) appear.  Chairs are brought out and music stands set up.  One man conducts, and the musicians play Chinese opera pieces or other classical music selections.  Three men in one corner play jazz tunes in a trombone, sax, and trumpet.  20 feet away, another man plays a guitar and sings.

 

I walk through silently, an observer under the constant, curious observation of others.  I arc my neck as I watch the jianzi soars through the air.  I tap my feet to the sounds of the orchestra and spin slowly along with the dancers.  And I laugh with the old men.  And even though I am 7500 miles from the place I was born, I feel like I belong.