Shanghai Returns
By Robert Wong
Fragrant tea, little Western sweet treats, and congee in pure white porcelain highlighted our snacks. My wife, two grown daughters, and I were enjoying our nightcap in the penthouse lounge of the Portman Ritz Carlton, recalling our first day in Shanghai.
Gazing out of the large windows overlooking the dimly lit red stars on the spires above the old Russian industrial exhibition hall I used to visit as a child, I searched into the distance where my first home was. How wonderful and strange to return to my hometown with my family after 40 years.
Dad's house in the French Concession area was payment for his engineering work during the war. The housing development was for China Airline pilots and their second and third wives. Now the women have grey hair and are in wheelchairs. The three-story buildings are landmarks, protected from becoming high rises like the many modern developments surrounding what was our immediate neighborhood. The old corner noodle house is still there. Low fences and wooden windows were stripped of metal frames and rebars for melt down, weapon fabrication, and industrial material.
A short walk away from my childhood house toward Xintiandi, we passed by Sun Yat Sen's mansion. Thick trees and private fences felt like St. Francis Woods back at home in San Francisco. It was warm and humid, even though November was coming soon. We enjoyed a day in the Shanghai Museum, a building shaped like an ancient bronze. With my docent finesse in check, I let the family wander through the exhibits untethered. Our evening meal was taken at M on the Bund. Grilled sea bass, creme brulee, a linen tablecloth, and wine glasses on a table for four offered a panoramic view of Pudong high rises and intense neon lights across the water. It was just like dining at Aqua by the Embarcadero.
The next day we planned to visit the Pudong water front, where my dad brought me on Sundays and holidays. Drawing the ships that went up and down the Huangpu River began my love for art and illustration. I would come home and chalk the entire wooden living room floor with boats and ships from memory. The ocean cargo container ships are so small when seen from top of the Radio Tower. After descending from the tower of large spheres, we hailed a taxi back across the Pudong via the underwater causeway. We then headed for Yu Yuan Gardens and savored the steamed buns from nearby vendors. There were colorful paper artworks, kites, and puppets to feast the eyes and check the wallet for souvenir buying.
I still remember the eight-cornered bridge zigzagging over the lotus pond. No ghost could follow me because they could not turn the corners. I imagine this in my office back home. Each day I escape the bad spirits of work exiting via a series of zigzagging corridors. The Ming and Qing Dynasty garden and pavilions still stand with the red pillars and glazed terra-cotta roofs. Rock gardens, walks, round entry door ways, and some Confucian folk tale story reliefs mounted on the walls had escaped my long-term memory. Dinner was spent among the locals at nearby Bi Feng Tong Chinese eatery. Evening shopping both under the moonlight and in modern malls offered a contrast for the returning westernized consumer.
On the last day, all packed, a taxi took us to the Pudong station for the Maglev train. Maglev is the fastest train on earth, faster than any shinkansen (bullet train) in Japan. We were headed for Hong Kong. We came in by the old airport from Beijing. Neighborhoods along the way on the Maglev were dotted with trees and houses that resembled Bay Area suburbs. I will have to return to check it out, but hopefully sooner than 40 years. I’ve long forgotten my Shanghainese. In first grade, all school fights were conducted in local Shanghai foul language until our teacher ended our scuffles by forcing us to continue only in Mandarin, the academic language.
At eight years old, buttoning my printed shirt as I came down the stairs in that first house, Dad said good-bye to Mom for what was to be 20 years. He told mom, “We will return when the boys are grown in America.” Dad, my brother, and I accompanied my 70-year-old grandfather back to the U.S. for important paperwork. That was our alibi for leaving Communist China. Dad paid an underground service in Guangzhou. A long hot and humid bus ride led to two nights offshore Macao on an ocean-going junk, all the while waiting for the right time while the captain and his men played Mahjong on board. The boat released us on the banks of Hong Kong in the wee hours of the morning. We clamored up the gang planks to an awaiting red double decker bus to freedom at Chaiwan, 1960.
Robert Wong is a newly retired engineer now doing his own consulting work. He is a volunteer docent at both the Fine Arts Museum and Asian Arts Museum. His favorite Shanghai memory is visiting the Bund as a young boy with his father on weekends, and returning home to draw all the ships and boats he saw on the water.
