Neighbors

I wake in the morning, and while I am pouring my tea, and hear the clop, clop, clop of the woman running down the stairs of my apartment building as she does every morning at around 8:30, rushing to work. I look at the window in my kitchen, waiting for her to appear out of the front door to our building. She is always carrying something, a department store bag filled with something, and always leans forward the same way as she sprints out the door, like she's got a lot to do today. I never see her face.

For the first time, looking up from my kitchen window, I notice an older man on his balcony three or floors up in the building across from me. He is standing, leaning on the railing, taking his morning drags of his cigarette. I am far away from him, looking through screen mesh, so I don't worry about being spotted. He is lost in thought, or perhaps worry, or maybe at peace, or maybe inspired. I think that cigarette is his friend, his meditation, and this moment perhaps nourishes him in some way, making the time until his next cigarette a little more bearable, maybe even enjoyable.

Yesterday, I am walking one of the long underground passageways near People's Square station and I notice several girls eating ice cream as the walk toward the subway entrance. There's a mall food court that connects to the passageway, and there is certainly an ice cream shop there. Even on the coldest Shanghai nights, I always see them eating their ice cream. They are always young girls. I have never seen a boy eating ice cream in this passageway.

Tonight's featured ice-cream eating girl, in her early twenties, is holding her cone in one hand, her cell phone in another. She's not fat, but you can tell that she likes ice cream.

She stops and holds the cell phone in front of her, and she holds her ice cream cone in front of her mouth, like she is about to eat some. She is taking a picture of herself. Before she snaps her ice cream picture, she sticks out her tongue slightly. Curiously, she doesn't smile. Perhaps she is embarrassed to smile like this in public, or this is for her boyfriend and she thinks not smiling would make her look a little sexier. As I pass her, she clicks her cell-phone camera and continues on her way.

Yesterday, I take the subway to IKEA. I walk underground for a while until I emerge at exit 5, and walk a block to the big, big store. It's more like a church, and I when I need to go their to pray to the gods of domestic consumption, I try to go on a weekday. In some way, it's very nourishing, which is why I suspect that this church is much more attended than most churches around the world.

I return the pillows with Swedish names that I bought last week and then return to the subway. Just in front of IKEA are people with small carts and goods spread on the sideway, selling things that they think IKEA shoppers might like, like plates and foldup laundry hampers with colorful, modern designs.

As I cross the street, there is a young, dark-skinned man, probably in his late 20s, squatting on the grass beside the sidewalk. He is wearing a suit, which is pretty much the standard uniform of most adult men in Shanghai, even if they are from the countryside. These suits are usually a little dingy and the coat and pants sometimes don't match. They are best worn with sweaters and beat-up shoes.

On the sidewalk in front of him is a flat piece of brown cardboard, and on it are about eight or ten small wind-up toys. They are all about the size of a ping-ping ball, in different colors. You wind them up and they walk. He is tending to his wind-up toys, making sure they are all doing their assigned exercise for the evening. I bet you they each sell for 3 kuai (50 cents) a piece, and if he sells a few of them, he could eat a good bowl of noodle soup tonight.