Our feet were aching. I reckon we walked 13 kilometres through the streets of Shanghai. Reecey reckons 18. Dad says 29.
The Cloth Market (officially titled South Bund Soft Silk and Textile Spinning Market, but known only as Lujiabang Lu to taxi drivers) was heaving with waiguoren (foreigners), getting measured for shirts, suits, jackets, coats. A girl gave her best Narcissus impression, gazing at her image in the full-length mirror, surrounded by fabrics.
We sat on the steps of the third floor, waiting for Reecey's dress to arrive from the tailor, surveying the interactions between waiguoren and locals.
A young Chinese lady trendily clad in a hot-pink tracksuit top walked towards us.
"Ni hao," we said in unison. She nodded and smiled politely, lips pursed together. She continued to walk towards us, stopped abruptly in front of a large green rubbish bin, and head down, unhurriedly let a giant golly fall from her lips into the bin. Her immediate task now completed, she beamed a smile at us: "I'm fine! How are you?"
No comments:
Post a Comment