BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 7)

Two nights after the climb I decided to treat myself to a massage. I'd never experienced a Chinese massage and was certain it would heal and refresh me. As I took the elevator down to the hotel spa I imagined I would soon be melting in relief.

I made my way onto the table and the tiny therapist went to work.

Pressure is fine, Madam? she asked.

Yes, I whispered.

That was a complete lie. I swear to God, this woman's hands were right out of a Black & Decker toolbox. Fingers like drill bits drove into my back. She was disintegrating my kidneys.

Fine, madam?

Yup, I choked.

What is wrong with me that I can't say no? Because I don't want to show weakness? Because I'm afraid of losing face? How very Asian of me.

Through the little hole in the massage table hung my face...a mask of pain, a Gorey-esque scream, my eyeballs bulging out of my head.

You're very tense, madam. You need ninety-minute treatment.

Not the cheapo forty-five minutes I'd agreed to. I wasn't sure I could last another forty-five seconds in the hands of my torturer.

Okay, was all I could answer.

When she got to my legs, I stifled screams. Squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth and swooned when her knuckles pressed into my calves. Holy Mother of God.

That was good, madam? she asked, her face bright with pride.

Excellent, I murmured and stumbled back to the elevator. After a long soak in a hot bath, I crawled into bed and slept more deeply than I could ever recall.

That massage therapist knew her business. That breaker of bodies was a serious pro.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 6)

Mei-Xing waved a yellow flag and Mr. Leung and I rejoined her flock. We were about to leave the low-slung walls of the Forbidden City to visit one of the wonders of the medieval world.

The Great Wall of China took two thousand years to build and is approximately thirty-one thousand miles long. In most tourist photos you see of this landmark, sightseeing visitors amble along a gently inclined section of the Great Wall that overlooks a beautiful mountainous terrain.

Just my luck — that particular area was currently closed and we were directed to an extremely steep path. The route included stairs that led straight up a virtual Mount Everest. Each stone step was over a foot high.

No problem, I thought. It'll be a pretty good workout and we'll get a hell of a view.

I began the ascent. Stone guardhouses were built at intervals along the hill. Other tourists mingled around them to take pictures and rest before either continuing upward or, more sensibly in my opinion, descending down to the gift shop and ice cream stand.

Peering up, it was impossible to see an end spot for our hike because the path meandered around many corners. During the walk I would think every guard station was the final one only to see another in the distance.

Mr. Leung, a bundle of energy, caught up to me at a rest stop and threw down a challenge to go higher.

Oh sure! I agreed.

And higher we went.

Leonard reached us, flush with the pep of a nineteen-year-old.

Higher? he laughed.

Well, sure, I puffed.

And higher we went.

Hey, how about some pictures? I suggested to the testosterone twins and we stopped at a guardhouse while I pulled out my camera. I looked over the wall, way, way down at the posse of wives awaiting our return.

Higher? Mr. Leung called out as he moved further up.

Um, sure...no problem, I answered with as much zeal as I could muster.

We climbed up the Great Wall of China for over an hour.

You know, fellas, of course I could keep going but I just wonder if Mei-Xing might be wanting us to come back to the bus.

They hemmed and hawed and finally agreed to return to the bottom.

And that was worse. The strain of ascending had turned my legs into Pick-Up Sticks, brittle and ready to snap apart. Gazing down the steep incline, my head swirled and I prayed I could reach the bottom without making a complete fool of myself. Maybe I could sit on my bum and slip down each tall step. My stomach roiled with the sensation that I was about to tumble and crash my way down to the base. Why did I agree to higher, higher, higher? What is wrong with me that I can't say no?

For three long days after our visit to the Great Wall I felt like I'd been beaten with a lead pipe.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 5)

Visiting the Forbidden City was impressive but I have to say, it's a dusty residence. We looked through glass windows into rooms filled with opulent furniture in sumptuous fabrics, but all I could see was the thick coating of dust covering every surface. Here's a tip for the Chinese government: Swiffer.

The rooms are no longer open to the public because officials fear the human touch would cause ruination. Folks, the grime's going to get it first.

I took an audio tour. The day was sunny and warm and, even with the holiday crowds, I never felt confined in the 180 acres of pavilions and courtyards. The grounds house 9,999 buildings, including the Halls of Supreme Harmony, Complete Harmony and Preserving Harmony. That's a lot of harmony.

Surely there would be no reason for agitation in such a place, but a cursory piece of historic research had me agog in a litany of bloodshed by suicide, fire and poison. Concubines and eunuchs were regularly hung by reams of white silk or cut to pieces by the slash of a sword. Light on harmony and heavy on cacophony.

Taking a break on a low stone wall, I was approached by a young man who said he was a painter and would I "please walk over here" to see his work. He told me he was chosen to move to the U.S., where a famous art teacher would mentor him. He just needed to sell a few pieces to pay for his passage. I took a quick look into the cubbyhole where some canvases sat. He pulled them out one after another to show me. I wished him luck and walked away.

A few minutes later, Mr. Leung, an English-speaking gentleman from our group, came over to me. He was concerned that I might have been inappropriately bothered by the fellow. I assured Mr. Leung I was fine and that it was only a scam.

What do you mean? he asked.

It's a con. These guys are all over the place. The works are painted in factories by copycat artists and tourists are told a big lie.

No.

Yes, I'm afraid so.

How do you know this?

And I showed him my Lonely Planet guidebook with the scam described exactly as I'd experienced it. I couldn't fault that guy. He was making a living and apparently it was a sanctioned one since he was given storage space in the Forbidden City.

Mr. Leung shook his head, sat beside me and we began to chat. He was traveling with his wife. He wondered why I was alone on the tour and I told him about William busy at work in Hong Kong.

You're very brave, he said.

No I'm not.

Oh yes, you are. It's courageous to take a Chinese tour all by yourself.

I laughed. No, I promise you, I'm not brave, I'm — and the word popped out of my mouth like a bubble in a cartoon — cheap.

There it was: the truth. I don't think I'm stingy with others, but I am with myself and here was the nut of my shopping anguish. I couldn't let go and spend with abandon. It wasn't in me. Some of us who grew up in stringent households have that quality ingrained in our character. I will forever search for a bargain.

I could think of exactly one person who appreciated this quality and he was waiting for me back in Hong Kong.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 4)

One morning we drove far into the countryside to visit a brand-new police academy. We were entertained by cleverly trained dogs running through their paces, then were taken to a small fake town, like a movie set, where the police staged a sting on some phony bad guys. Members of the squadron sneaked behind walls, broke down doors and shot off blanks.

What next, am I supposed to buy a bulletproof vest?

In China the hard sell is de rigueur. On the street, sellers would chase after us and I'd find myself running away to hide. In the supermarket, I picked up a jar of face cream and instantly a salesgirl was beside me pushing a pricier item.

Mei-Xing led us away from the buying quotient of the tour and to the big sites. High on the list: Tiananmen Square. The site is the size of ninety football fields — the entire area monitored by security cameras, with stern military guards strutting in formation in front of billboards of Mao and the current Chairman. The Chinese are wary of another incident like that of the celebrated protest there in 1989.

As I wandered among thousands of people in May Day celebrations, I saw a round-faced girl of about seven, crying. Her shoulders heaved and tears ran down her cheeks. Two guards stared at her with impassive faces. She appeared to be telling one of these hard-asses she couldn't find her mommy.

A universal moment. We could have been anywhere in the world. Women tore away from their families and formed a semi-circle near the girl. These other mothers fretted for the child, but official intimidation was at play and not one of them could get close enough to whisper It'll be okay, we'll find your mommy.

Eventually another cop sauntered over, got the girl's story and corralled her toward a police van. No one ever touched her. Not once did a hand pat her shoulder, not once did anyone kneel beside her, not once was she given a reassuring hug.

There was longing in the face every woman who watched. Not once was it possible.

China has a population of 1.3 billion people and the one-child-per-family law still exists...unless you're rich and ignore the rule because you can afford to pay the fine.

William and I heard a story from a pair of British film crew members. They told us of being in a Shanghai night market where they found themselves surrounded by desperate parents shoving baby girls into their arms. Even as China spins itself into supreme modernism with architecture, technology and commerce, many ancient judgments persist — none more so than the strong preference for sons.

Boys to carry on the family name. Boys to labor in rural communities. Boys to prosper in careers and care for older parents.

Baby boys: good.

Baby girls: not so much.

Sex-selective abortions are illegal but the practice remains widespread. In China many toilets are flushable holes in the ground. They have become common depositories for baby girls. As the practice of infanticide continues, millions have been lost or deliberately abandoned in what some describe as a Holocaust of female babies.

Thus: Studies have determined that by the year 2020, forty million Chinese men will not be able to find wives.

With tears in their eyes, our friends in Shanghai pushed away from the crowd and the babies held out to them. They were trapped in a horrible Catch-22 because even if they had wanted to, they couldn't have taken an infant out of China without complicated legal reprisals.

What would I do if a baby were thrust into my arms? A terrible scenario, to be sure. And with these thoughts our bus pulled up to our next big site.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 3)

To be fair, the next three nights were spent in a luxurious hotel resting my head on excellent pillows.

As the days passed I learned the truth of the tourism business. It was great not having to make plans or worry how to get anywhere, especially in a country where English wasn't widely spoken. I was also aware of how economical the trip turned out to be.

On the other hand, there were the seven a.m. wake-up calls followed by head-whipping rounds of sightseeing that continued until eight at night. At which point I could have slept in a tent. On rocks.

And a practice I like to call: Cram them in a room, lock the door and sell them stuff.

Our first day we shuffled through a jade factory, a cloisonné factory, a tea factory, a silk factory, a pharmaceutical factory, a medical institute and a foot massage center. In every case, a professional gave a lecture, then we were escorted around a corner into — how fortuitous — a showroom with legions of salespeople ready to pounce.

At the medical institute, a doctor took my pulse and shook his head. His face was etched with grave concern as he diagnosed me with a weak immune system.

That's not good.

I didn't want to appear skeptical and listened to his analysis. When in Rome. Also, What the hell is going to happen to me?

The doctor's translator handed me a sheet of paper listing illnesses and their remedies. She circled the doctor's prescription. Foremost among the conditions it treated: PREMATURE EJACULATION.

That's not good.

The translator pointed down the hall to the convenient pharmacy, where I could buy the cure. I chose to stay flaccid and politely declined the herbal compound.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 2)

We were in Beijing on May 1, which is the Labor Day holiday in China. It would be a full week off work for most of the population. I thought perhaps we'd see tanks and armies on parade, but they don't do that anymore. What we did see were streets, squares and parks full of citizens on holiday.

I thought Hong Kong was notable for its construction, but Beijing had it beat with crane after crane perched high atop a series of giant structures. They spread across the skyline like some giant mechanical chorus line.

Everything was on a grand scale. We drove down a boulevard of ten traffic lanes, five on each side. The fences acting as the meridian were designed for speedy removal should a 747 jetliner need to land in the case of a military emergency. Ever-ready China.

Alongside the boulevard sat government offices, Tiananmen Square, the Forbidden City and buildings so large they made Vegas look as quaint as an Idaho town. Glitz and glamour shone forth from jumbo hotels. I was grateful to be on a tour because a night at one of these places started at $300. China, desperate to compete with Paris, London and New York, was not about to dole out cut-rate rooms.

But I discovered a light scratch of the surface sometimes reveals a lack of finesse.

Our first night, we stayed far outside Beijing at a hot-springs resort. The bus cruised up the driveway at twilight and my heart lifted to see a tranquil haven of long, low structures. A small lake rippled with floating lilies. An ornate carved bridge spanned its breadth. Lovely for an evening stroll, I fancied.

I entered my room, which was decorated in simple hardwood, with two beds covered in snowy white duvets. Behind sliding doors a private deck housed a hot mineral bath. Heaven.

— until bedtime, when I clicked off my lamp and started to relax — and was jolted awake. Doors slammed and footsteps echoed on the marble floor as fellow guests returned to their rooms. Voices chattered and laughter bounced off the walls and my serene sanctuary collapsed.

Then at five a.m. it was the maids clattering in the hallway. When I took a shower, water sprayed indiscriminately and soaked the entire bathroom. I reached for a towel and saw mold creeping up the tile.

The façade, however, was stunning.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 1)

When we arrived in Beijing, our tour director, Bryan, introduced us to our tour leader, Mei-Xing. She was, I guessed, in her early forties and spoke Mandarin. She climbed aboard our bus with a cheerful Ni hao! and we were off.

Our group was made up of Cantonese speakers, Mandarin speakers and English speakers. Fortunately, the major sights spoke for themselves.

I shamelessly leaked to anyone who cared to listen that my in-laws were from Hong Kong and China. That I married in and belonged. I didn't want to be thought of as some brash American interloper. During Mei-Xing's orations I nodded and clapped along with everyone else. I picked up cues and laughed when others laughed.

Mei-Xing shook her head at my ridiculous behavior. Everyone knew I didn't get her jokes and my pretense proved as funny as any of her one-liners.

Keen to expand his career into English-language tours, Bryan attached himself to Leonard and me. Bryan had a burgeoning confidence in his English — that is, when the topic of his favorite basketball team, the Lakers, came up. Steering him off the subject was a struggle.

Shaq, Shaq, Shaq.

Okay, Bryan, we've moved on to food.

Kobe this, Kobe that.

Bryan, do you think we'll have Peking Duck on the tour?

Derek Fisher....

Really, Bryan, we're on to noodles versus rice.

My first impression of Beijing: trees. Green and full in spring blossom, rows upon rows along wide boulevards. Made more noticeable, I'm sure, after having spent a month in Hong Kong, where greenery was not commonplace. There isn't enough room in Hong Kong for parks and tree-lined streets. In Beijing elms, birches and maples stand tall and proud.

The bus drove us past city parks with artificial lakes, where people paddled in small boats. Whole sections of Beijing looked like Paris. I expected tiny Madeline to pop up at any moment.

My second impression: the cool air. We were out of Hong Kong's humidity. Beijing and New York City are close to the same latitude and share similar climates. It was like spring in New England.