If Pudong had proved our fireworks display, today would become the damp squib. It began in search of street food, as despite the enormous disparities in wealth to be found into the city, accidentally slipping into an excessively priced restaurant here proves all too easy.
A quick meander through the laundry-clad old city and we were soon armed with half a duck, beak and all, and a couple of pork buns, all for a paltry sum. Heading to the park, we slipped between tables crammed with old folk feverishly playing cards and suit-clad business people taking time out of their schedules for a stretching session, before finding a seat and settling in for a feast. It was lukewarm and underwhelming to say the least, but our wallets appreciated the gesture...
This done, we were off to the central station to piece together the next leg of our journey. Having neatly avoided a scamming, as a hotel pimp insisted on leading us to a not-remotely-legitimate, tiny back street ticket office whilst demanding a commission on our tickets, we sought out the genuine office and queued. This initially proved futile as 10-minutes later and only two-people from our target, whilst being buffeted from behind by an impatient, vocal and frustrated older man, the attendant shut up shop and ushered us off elsewhere.
The second queue was more fruitful and we left clasping soft sleeper tickets to Beijing to our chests, relieved in the knowledge that the only thing now standing between us and St Petersburg is our ability to board the right trains.
Having had our fill of Chinese customer service, our next prospective gripe came with its signage as we proceeded to track down the Museum of Contemporary Art, bereft of hints. Having circumnavigated 98% of People’s Square, we eventually came upon the place, its rather grandiose name leading to enormous disappointment as we were greeted with what appeared to be a small shop, peddling half arsed, half-baked tat. And it was closed.
In desperate need of an endorphin pick me up, I was sucked in by the immersing neon of the enormous Hershey’s Store opposite and was soon sucking on a chocolate shake, desperate to drain every iota of tryptophan from its contents. This, as it transpired, was to prove a revealing purchase.
As we made our way home, guiding ourselves by the various giant buildings pervading the skyline, we came across some lively streets, packed with locals, chowing down on affordable foodstuffs. Taking a cultural detour and now in possession of an entire, fresh, peel-free and prepared pineapple, which cost 1/6 of the price of the shake, a host of tiny, semi-underground massage parlours came into view.
With aching feet and an absence of plans, we slunk in, unsure of the reception we’d get. We need not have worried. It was smiles, incomprehensible utterances and yawns all round. Waking a couple of masseuses from their mid-evening slumber, we were soon being treated to an extensive, lengthy, relieving and surprisingly thorough foot massage. And, having been hard at work for an hour, the tired, yet circumspect workers demanded nothing more for their endeavours than the price of the chocolate beverage I rapidly sunk earlier. Ah, Shanghai, a rich man’s playground in the of an impoverished landscape. With relief in my shoes and guilt in my heart, I made for the sack…
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