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Not far from the Hailun Road metro stop rests the concrete skeleton of the Old Millfun slaughterhouse (confusingly also known as Laochangfang, according to Google Maps), a vestige of the Art Deco period whose interior has been repurposed into cafes, studios, beauty salons, shops and event spaces while retaining the original cattle ramps and narrow passages presumably intended for humans. The very neighborhood radiates with yuppie industrial chic; on the way there I passed through a stretch of cement-tiled road lined with tea houses, galleries and coffee shops that would not have felt out of place in Brooklyn. The street itself is not incongruous with cosmopolitan Shanghai, but the proximity to "real" China (clotheslines barely high enough to keep blankets from skimming the sidewalk, folding tables for mahjong, tiny markets with cardboard boxes of produce spilling out toward the street), merely ten paces away across the pedestrian bridge, surprised me. But, thinking of how my inner-city high school in Seattle's Central District was adjacent to the affluent Madrona neighborhood, cities often seem paradoxical in layout.
See more of the slaughterhouse and Shanghai here.
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Just beyond the Irago ferry port is a concrete wall that projects out from the mainland, bending once at an angle that creates a mostly-enclosed area for the ferries and fishing boats. If the signs don't outright say 'Do not enter,' I'm fairly confident that they at least say 'Caution.' For although the wall is just wide enough not to be scary on a nice day, a high wind could be deadly for even those with good balance. Regardless, it appears to be a popular fishing spot.
Fishing, along with golf and bird-watching, have never interested me much because I lack the patience that they require. My father once took my brother and I out fishing, but what I remember most is my brother, in a characteristic bout of enthusiasm, showing me how to cast the line out. He swung the rod back over his shoulder and then forward onto the water, eyes widening and mouth forming an o as it slipped out of his hands at the last second, continuing its outward trajectory before finally sinking below the surface. There may have been some tears as a result, but after some tense, quiet minutes, my father succeeded in fishing it back out using his own pole. Between the three of us, I don't think any fish were caught that day, but I know that my brother was pleased to have the fishing pole back.
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Taken on separate occasions. The first, a sunny afternoon when I biked (taking the hilly way rather than the flat way) around the cape to a rocky beach that I'd spotted from the observation deck of the Irako View Hotel. I have an innate predilection for climbing things (sculptures, fire escapes, roofs) that sometimes gets me into trouble. It was fun until I very nearly tumbled into a deep ravine after what I'd thought was the perfect handhold broke away from the main rock. For a split second my hands grasped at the air, and then my knee came down - hard - onto the ledge I'd been perched on when I took the second photo below.
On a different day, I took the bike in the opposite direction and followed the coastal road that runs along the bay side of the peninsula. It was so windy that the grains of sand pelting the part of my face uncovered by large sunglasses stung, and I felt like a drunk person trying to keep the handlebars steady. Despite the challenges, I enjoyed watching the almighty waves crashing up against the concrete barriers, formed by interlocking bits of concrete that resembled pieces from a giant's game of jacks.
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This is what it feels like to be a non-Indian person in India. Now I get why celebrities look so pissed off in candid shots; it's incredibly invasive and disruptive.
For a while when people asked to take pictures of me, I categorically said no. It was weird, and it made me feel even more uncomfortable and self-conscious than normal. Then I started making exceptions for women and children (it's usually guys that ask, and god knows what they do with the photo afterwards), but I got annoyed with saying no all the time. People are persistent, and with the heat and humidity I didn't always have it in me to fight. So i reached a compromise of sorts: a picture for a picture.
What bothered me about being photographed by strangers (although I guess I should be grateful to the ones who actually asked my permission; others just pointed their camera phones at me surreptitiously) is the inherent objectification of the act. They only cared that I was a foreigner so that they could show me off to their friends and family. Like the men who have approached me only because I'm Asian and they have yellow fever, who I am as a person doesn't matter to them. (I have so many thoughts on this phenomenon that it's expanded into multiple drafts of several essays, which I hope to publish very soon).
But with the tables turned and my camera pointed at them, I realized I had a great creative opportunity in my hands. The first few times the photographers became the subjects, I was taken aback that they actually posed without any prompting from me. All guys, mind you. I'd been to enough tourist sites by then to know that Indian guys like to look really stoic in their photos; it always made laugh because, well, it's not a mugshot!
Inspired by one of my favorite websites, Humans of New York, I tried to talk to the subjects because every person has a story to tell. It worked better with some than with others, but my only wish is that I had taken this approach from the beginning.
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After almost a year of being in Paris, I tell myself that I know the city pretty well. So imagine my surprise when a Google search for "best picnic parks Paris" revealed a 3-mile elevated park spanning eastward from Bastille to the highway that encircles the city proper. Even before I biked there on a recent sunny afternoon (not as straightforward as I thought because a protest had shut down some major streets), I was all excited because The High Line, another famous parkway, had been one of my favorite places to go the summer I lived in New York City.
For the most part the park runs parallel to Avenue Daumesnil in the 12th. Starting from Bastille, the repurposed railway, whose archways at street level have been taken over by shops, is now effectively a greenbelt popular with joggers and day drinkers. And, like The High Line, it occasionally cuts through buildings.
I didn't take the promenade all the way to the end, but stopped where it descended to the gorgeous Jardin de Reuilly. I think I found my new picnic spot.
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Taking a break from attempting to describe the chasm of mixed feelings regarding my internship, here are some reminders of why I love this city and will miss it when I leave in a few short months. After a long winter (it snowed again in March, if I recall correctly), the weather has finally decided to cooperate with the seasons. And now that it's not pitch-dark and freezing cold when I leave in the mornings for work, I'm finding it much easier to roll out of bed at 5am.
Below, some scenes from the neighborhood.
1. The Pantheon.
2. Brasserie near the Luxembourg Garden.
3. Joggers in the park.
4. Visiting the food truck on my night off after spending a glorious afternoon catching up with a highschool friend at Parc de Buttes Chaumont on the first true spring day (70+F!).
5. One of my personal favorites of spring/summer: strawberries!
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