Substituted touristing for spectating.
Tiananmen Square is ground zero for touristing here in Beijing ? 100 acres of pink granite blocks, a paved-over Central Park. The scale is remarkable. If anything, it seems bigger than 100 acres, and crowded like Disneyland on graduation night.
In the middle of the square, under a 90 degree sun, 9,500 odd people were lined up outside the Mausoleum of Mao Zedong, looking forward to a quick stroll past the Crystal Coffin. (The Wikipedia entry for this whole tomb-endeavor is good reading.) Gave that a pass - marched off to The Forbidden City, (where The Last Emperor was filmed - Best Picture, 1987, beating out Fatal Attraction; Glenn Close was on the same plane to Beijing, up in first class, of course, drinking copious amounts of fine wine and stretching out -FULL LENGTH- in odd pod-like seats that looked awfully comfortable from my perspective; in theory, with just the right combination of movies, magazines, wine, and such, you could exit the plane in Beijing feeling more rested than when you embarked. Strictly theoretical at this stage of the game.) The Forbidden City is forbidden no more. To say more would do an injustice to the grandeur. Off to shop. Started at the authentic only Beijing Friendship Store. The only reason to enter this store is to enjoy the solitude and air conditioning. The stuff being sold is 100% authentic, appropriate, tasteful, and utterly boring. Employees outnumber shoppers 20:1. While heading for the exit, I do believe I heard the saddest sound in retailing: tick, tick ticking - I looked over and saw a woman behind the counter lightly tapping the top of the glass display case with her long, elegant fingernails, bored out of her skull.
I entered an oasis of cool sanity and caffeine at an adjacent Starbucks. Prices at the green monster were on par with US prices. In the US, the ridiculous-ubiquitous sprouting of Starbucks has degraded their value to the point where they are a blight on the landscape. But here in Beijing, they reign supreme. Frappuccino, delicious. Plus you get the all-important calorie replacement. (380 calories / 15 grams of fat ? not quite Quarter pounder numbers but not far off.) There were comfy chairs in which to recline. Decent lighting with which to read the map. Not too crowded since the locals haven't a clue about all things Starbucks. In fact, the only people inside were Americans. Basically it's the next best thing to a private club.
You can tell the patrons are Americans by the 71 clues we exude: tall. Few meals missed. In fact, one or two extra happy meals ingested. (If there's a monster earthquake during the Games, Americans will be the ones pulled alive from the wreckage after 93 days, little worse for wear.) Shorts - locals do not wear shorts. Sunglasses - locals do not wear sunglasses. Hats - locals do not wear hats. Tattoos - not one in sight.
Revived, rejuvenated, off to the Silk Market. (Cliche I know - but when you have a shopping list to fill for friends and relatives back home?) The Silk Market. Two dozen mega-tourist buses parked in the parking lot, idly spewing out diesel particulate to no one in particular, I suspected that I wasn?t the first to arrive.
The market is barely contained in a modern five-story building, about a hundred yards long on each side, five stories filled with the stuff of life (aka junk - the human condition would only improve should this market suddenly disappear, but even knowing that does not prevent me from crossing the threshold and entering this bastion of consumerism, but I'm just there to look, or to do research or... never mind. Where are the watches?) Custom made suits on Level 3; Taylor golf clubs on Level 2; Spyder ski parka on Level 1; pearls and watches on Level 5.
The whole west wall of the 5th floor is devoted to the selling of watches - the sort of watches you see advertised in the first few pages of The New York Times, usually with a coyly smiling celebrity (George C. or Rene Z.) adding their stamp of approval in exchange for pocket change and perhaps a sleek new run-about for the Lake Como villa. The old one is looking a little dated.
Imagine a chunky lizard on its way home from a hard day in the jungle, bothering no one, crosses a line of hungry ants. One ant bites the lizard - painful but not too bad. Then another ant bites the lizard. Ouch. Draws blood, which attracts more ants. Then a third, fourth and fifth bite, and before long the lizard has been reduced to a pile of bones. That, more or less, is the experience I had while running the watch gauntlet. The diminutive salespeople (all women) could peer inside my wallet and count the cash - could size me up as a Bell and Ross BR 01-92 with leather strap stainless body with orange numbers sort of guy. Damn it, how did they know? And they did not take no for an answer. If fact, "No thanks" to them is like "I'll take two" to a normal person. If there was ever a wrestling match between a surly ex-con circus carnie and Silk Market watch saleswoman, I'd put my money on the Silk Marketer.
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