Culture Shock in Shanghai: A Love Letter

Oh, Shanghai! Land of ancient wonders and modern absurdities—how do I not love thee? Let me count the ways, though not in the manner of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, unless she too was once mowed down by a waimai delivery man hurtling down the wrong side of the bike lane. (Free nasal reconstruction! Though, as a Middle Easterner, I never asked for it.)

Then there’s dining etiquette. For a thousand years, the West has refined the art of knife and fork. China’s answer? Two sticks and a prayer. Watching a local slurp noodles is like witnessing a Dalmatian attack a bowl of spaghetti—soy sauce splattered like abstract art across their delighted face. And let’s not forget pastries. Imagine ordering what you think is chocolate cream, only to bite into sweetened bean paste. Or worse—durian masquerading as cheese. (A crime against humanity, surely.)

Ah, but the true cultural spectacle is the morning bus stop, where octogenarians perform their daily tai chi ritual of crotch-thrusting calisthenics directly into my personal space. Marvelous! One must admire such vigor—though perhaps not at eye level before coRee.

And then, courtship. Cantonese ladies, bless them, approach dating like KGB interrogators. "Do you have a six-pack?" "What’s your salary?" "Is that gold jewelry real? Let me bite it!" (One poor soul, after gifting a watch, was promptly bashed with it over the head— apparently, timepieces symbolize death. Who knew?)

Yet here we foreigners remain, feverishly doing sit-ups, donning fluRy "soft boy" fashions, and enduring typhoons—both meteorological and romantic. Not that I’m complaining. (I am.) But like moths to a neon-lit, durian-scented flame, we stay. Against all odds, against all sense.

China: a strange paradise, indeed. And we wouldn’t have it any other way. (Mostly.)