J-term in Shanghai: Rachel Corsini’s entries

RACHEL CORSINI (fiction writing major) writes:
The Glamour Bar on The Bund is one of the more chi-chi places in Shanghai, where cocktails cost just as much as in the States. Through the windows is the perfect view of Pudong, with the pearl tower’s flashing lights glittering through the snow.

I sat quite comfortably on a plush couch and sipped slowly from my martini glass, looking at the rose-colored haze above the bar. The group of us had been there for quite some time and we decided to take our business elsewhere, more specifically to a cheaper spot. I had no problem with that, but Hannah, my redheaded bubbly roommate, had no clue how to get to The Captain’s Bar on Fuzhou Road and either did anybody else. I was elected by the crew to ask for directions from the myriad of ex-pats who were tucked away on the couches and corners of the bar.

So off I went into the world of the Shanghai ex-pats, more specifically the two guys sitting next to us.

“Excuse me, do you speak English?” I asked politely. Don’t laugh, I was very polite which is highly unusual for me and takes quite some thought.

“I would think so.” He spoke in his arrogant French way, setting his beer down on the table in front of him, reclining back onto the couch. Great. Leave it to me to get an arrogant Frenchman. He already hated me from the second I opened my stupid American mouth.

“Right.” I halfway rolled my eyes, “Do you know where Fuzhou Road is?”

“What road?”

This exchange continued on like this, “Fuzhou Road?” “What road?” “Fuzhou Road?” Again and again, until finally he decided to tell me the proper pronunciation which I still can’t say.

“No, I don’t.” Wonderful. I turned my head over my shoulder to see where the rest of the group had gone, only to discover I was left to my own devices. I just prayed they hadn’t gotten in the elevator and left me to the wolves.

“Okay.” Immediately I turned to flee the scene and reconnect with people who didn’t actually hate me, but was stopped.

“Where are you from?” I wanted him to be smoking a cigarette and wearing a beret but he wasn’t, which still disappoints me even now.

“America.”

“Obviously.” Alright I had to give him that one, it was a stupid answer. “Where?”

“New York.” I answered with my thick borough accent and a smirk on my lips.

“Where in New York?”

“Queens.” I had no idea why this guy was asking me this. There was no way he was going to know Queens, let alone where I live. No one knows Queens unless you live there and never decide to leave like every single one of my friends, but that’s a different story.

“Where in Queens?” Okay now this was getting a little old.

“Maspeth.”

“I do not know where that is, but I know Astoria and Forest Hills.”

“Really? I live like ten minutes from there.” I actually smiled at him. “Me and my girls hang out in Astoria all the time.” He nodded a curt nod.

“I lived in New York for five years. Great city.” His tone was genuine. Evidently since I’m a New Yorker it was OK that I existed in the world. It might have even been OK that I was American just because I’m a New Yorker. Who knows, but he stopped being rude. We chatted a bit more; I gave a final thank you and with no directions to Fuzhou Road returned to my friends with a bigger ego then before I left them. I had the seal of approval from an arrogant Frenchman because I’m a New Yorker.

Rachel Corsini is a junior in the fiction writing department.

RACHEL CORSINI (fiction writing) writes:
The French Concession is a unique sort of place. Some people are still living as they did a hundred years ago: washing their hair outside, cooking in the outdoor courtyards and dividing up the communal space among four families. Others are living with modern conveniences and have the benefit of shopping in a chic secluded area at 210 Taikang Lou.

All along the small lanes were tiny clothing stores, handbag shops, accessory places, and a teddy bear store. It looked innocent enough and, truthfully, I love teddy bears. So I went inside to have a look around. Everything seemed pretty generic, mostly the same things I could get in the States. I peered around a corner and noticed a hallway leading toward another room. Of course I ventured down that way. Before my eyes was a teddy bear museum. Teddy bears from years past sat behind a plastic cover, staring out at me forlornly. Okay, now this was weird. From out of nowhere a woman came up behind me.

“You like? I make teddy bears, do you want to see? I show you. Upstairs is teddy bear café.” Right, it kept getting stranger. So I followed her up a narrow circular staircase and enter a teddy bear haven. Teddy bears sat on shelves and were littered about the room as though they were guests at the café. Then she led me over to where she made her very own teddy bears. Being who I am I just had to buy one ... so I did.

Let’s fast forward to the day before yesterday. I fell asleep with my handmade white teddy bear which I lovingly named Sleepy-time. I woke up and Sleepy-time was wedged under my arm. So I left him tucked up underneath the covers, just so he stayed warm while I was gone. Hannah and I went to meet the group and then we returned. Sleepy-time was nowhere to be found. I was in distress. Complete and utter distress! Where could he be? I checked everywhere, but once again we were leaving. So with a pout on my face I left the motel to party at Paramount.

Paramount was a Chinese hip-hop club complete with scratching DJs and flashing lights, as well as people dancing in neon-covered body suits and a couple doing pas de deux (a French form of ballet meaning "step of two") on the smaller dance floor. The Paramount used to be an old theater which was renovated into a modern day dance club. The grand staircase was still intact and the stage was as well. It was pretty awesome. I drank Chivas and green tea all night, which I’m told is a popular Chinese cocktail.

We returned again and this time I slept restlessly, wondering if Sleepy-time was all right, wherever he might be. Today Hannah and I decided to pack up everything just to check if he was misplaced somewhere. Nope, he was still gone. It’s upsetting. I enjoyed cuddling him every single night without him breathing on me, snoring, smelling bad, or farting. He was comforting without the groans and weird noises that others can sometimes make, mostly men. I miss my dear Sleepy-time. Rest in peace.

Fuzhou Lou is basically the art supplier for the entirety of Shanghai. There are many stores that have paints, calligraphy brushes, ink, and seals. Everything that a Chinese artist would need is on this road. I was there looking for something special to add to my final project for this class. I finally settled on calligraphy brushes and a cheap bottle of ink. God only knows what I’m gonna do with it.

When I returned to my hotel room, who should be waiting for me with his cute little face … Sleepy-time! He’s alive! Sleepy-time’s alive! He had a bit of an adventure I’m afraid. See, he was washed. That’s right; Sleepy-time had a bath, a bath which took off most of his fluffy white fur. He’s still irresistibly adorable though; even though he’s less cuddly, I still love him. I couldn’t help but squeal, “Sleepy-time!” I picked him up right away of course, seeing as he could have been frazzled from his couple of days spent away from me as well as being thrust into a washing machine. He has returned, a little less fluffy, smelling like Chinese food and strange detergent.

But he’s safe.

Rachel Corsini is a junior fiction writing major.