Collect other peoples memories. A place doesn’t mean anything until you meet somebody who tells you a story.
There can be few places like Shanghai’s French Concession on a hot Saturday evening in September. Long avenues of picturesque low-rise buildings, occasional darkened villas in French colonial style looming and hidden behind high walls. Narrow streets lined with trees, planted by the French to shield us from the sunlight. The French always get it right. They know how to live. I can imagine the Chinese at the time saying “Now why didn’t we think of that?”. The endless array of restaurants and food outlets, now peppered with every kind of cafe and coffee imaginable. In that Blade Runner vibe, they’ll squeeze a tiny eatery into a garage then somehow fit a hipster cafe into the cupboard next to it. If you leave a cardboard box out on the street at night it will be a restaurant or bar by the next day. In a country where entire cities have no sense of place The French Concession is all place and continues to become a place over and over through each passing decade.
Its timeless allure is irresistible.
I try to tell myself that it’s no different to London’s Covent Garden and it’s just a bunch of youngsters out for some fun, but I’m still smitten. What’s the difference? It may have the same subtle scent of decadence lurking beneath the surface as its Western counterparts in London and Berlin but it is what it lacks that makes it special. That is, the food is more abundant and the alcohol less so. In Shanghai there is no sense of threat, there is no need to stay alert to impending violence because they have not yet lost control to excessive alcohol and drug consumption in the way that we did so long ago that it is now woven into our culture. I’m sure there is plenty of bottom feeding low-life in China, sorry, unfortunates, but they are not as vocal. They do not dominate the streets at night in the way I have seen in England. As I walk through the streets I am struck by the absence of the bawling voices that signify street fights and the accompanying scream of police sirens. There are foot Police on every corner, usually standing alone, hands clasped behind their backs. They seem more like they are there to protect us rather than oppress us. Maybe I am wrong, I don’t know. I only recall one moment where I felt threatened. I was on a Metro platform and I caught sight of three young men hovering near me. It was a Friday night so I was perhaps attuned to the knowledge that this was the danger hour. I began to talk myself out of it but my instincts were buzzing, only a little, like a cell-phone on vibrate. They were short in stature, lean. Unlike the usual Chinese males they didn’t have that loping, friendly movement. They seemed drunken, but they moved with some purpose. What caught my attention was their haircuts. Too sharp. Like rockers from the fifties. That Asian gangster look. There was little possibility that any kind of gang member in China would be travelling on the Metro but they could be wannabe gangsters, and they may have been short, but that means nothing in a society where the martial arts culture has ensured that even the most unassuming of figures can still be dangerous. But all I had to do was wander down the platform to where the attractive uniformed security guard was standing next to her communications station and wait there. Problem solved.
Shanghai on Saturday night may be thronging with youngsters but there are no brawling drunks or braying hen parties. There is consumption in abundance and they’ll be up all night but they have retained an elegance that echoes back to the French Concessions romantic history. This is, of course, the notoriously liberal quarter of the open city that ranks alongside Casablanca in modern myth. It is an art deco fantasy that recalls red velvet nightclubs, shady deals, gangs profiteering from the black market and all manner of adventurers and hustlers washing up here with no place left to run.
It is a far cry from that now but the walls remember and that illusion seeps into every pore of the place - there are still plenty of people washing up here having burned their bridges elsewhere.
There are moments when I wonder if I might be one of them but there is still much to play for here so it is not yet the end of the road.
Swarms of people crowd the avenues but it smells sweet and feels safe. I’m astonished by the sheer numbers of attractive young women I see everywhere. Mile after mile of them. You could attempt to measure this place in meterage of exposed leg. I can only assume the young men are of equal quality. If China has a population problem then I’m not seeing it. It’s hard to take in so much human beauty so I don’t try.
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