I have been to this city before. Not as I am now, the ambassador of a large company (VP of Client Partnerships-EMEA/APAC). I did not stand at a cocktail reception celebrating my visit, sipping on my expensive vodka. I left this city in girlish, weak tears, my head aching, and shame clinging to me, as visible as the sweaty county jersey on my back.
When I was here before, I arrived and left, two days later by train. This time, I was collected at the airport by a man with white gloves. He took our bags, and put them into the boot of an S-Class Mercedes. We made polite conversation on the way through town. I didn’t say I had been here before.
Fifteen years ago, I was drunk here on cheap whiskey and expensive Coca Cola. I drank them from plastic cups, sitting on garden furniture, Eoin and I pouring for the rest of the hostel visitors. Our treat - especially to the israeli group, tanned, giddy and on leave from the military. Now my vodka is viscous and cold, a mist rising up the heavy glass. The ice cubes are square and solid. The shaving of lime that twists through it is perfect. It is the twist of lime that only exists in the minds of obsessed bartenders.
I have stood in air conditioned meeting rooms for the last three days. The floor to ceiling windows in these rooms, and my hotel suite, show the city as it would like to be seen; glittering skyscrapers, beaming screens and the wide sweep of the river. These windows are to show off the miracle - how the Chinese have taken their second city and built the future.
Fifteen years ago, this was a building site. I stood in a similar rooftop bar, our one indulgence was a (then) exhorbitantly expensive coffee to see the city from the sky - Eoin and I took the morning, and went with two of the israelis, Elad and Rachel. We stared down, and didn’t really know what to say - It’s hard to connect with a building site over a coffee that costs the same as a night in a hostel. (Which in turn, is one third the cost of the vodka I’m now drinking)
When I stood in front of the presentations this week, and spoke of partnerships, we looked like the inhabitants of the future. My team were on one side of the table, our clients on the other. All of us bred, dressed and groomed exactly as we should be. I am forty-two, I run triathlons and my hair is the blend of grey and black that passes for distinguished.
Back then, I was gangly, Eoin, my school friend, turned travel companion (turned best man, turned godfather to my eldest) was fat and red haired. I had thought it was a good idea to shave my head. When I see the pictures, given my height and build, I realise I looked like a gearstick. The israelis were beautiful - the good looks that can only come from hard physical exercise and sun. Rachel’s gold jewelry and designer sunglasses sparkled on her tanned skin. Army training had turned Elad vicious, she said - vicious but gorgeous. She would wink at him then, and he would reach over and squeeze her shoulder. He never smiled at her.
Now, I have a beautiful wife, and two lovely children. My clients will ask me about them regularly, as I will ask about theirs. There is no humanity in these questions - we’re all trying to be the perfection that we want to see around us. We say ‘parenting is hard’ and widen our eyes - we commiserate when we hear bad personal news, but that is of no substance. We don’t feel their grief or pain. In small talk, they will ask what I think of Shanghai, I won’t say that the city is burned into my consciousness - that I stood at the edge of something that may or may not have been very important, and turned back here. It’s easier to say that I’ve never been here, but am amazed at the scale of the place.
In this world - the now world - futuristic cities, perfect drinks and air-conditioned transport, we don’t have complexity or ambiguity. I don’t speak of the love I have for my wife, for all of her - the things she did before we met, the drugs she still takes. I don’t talk about running and swimming to obliterate feeling and thought - I talk about it in terms of ‘competing’ and ‘intensity’.
I don’t talk about the doubts I have about my children - my two beautiful daughters - I haven’t shared that I am terrified that I’m raising them to produce and consume like earthworms. I’m teaching them the life I feel should be taught - the values that I would like to see in print against my name - hard work, integrity, joy. There’s plenty in our lives that we’re not sharing. I know my wife will never share the bliss she felt when she tried heroin (only three times - she promises - during her J1). I won’t tell them about what almost happened here in a hostel laundry room.
How we had lunch, after the skyscraper coffee. Rachel and Eoin had pork noodles - Elad and I had prawns. The pork was bad, and within an hour, both Rachel and Eoin started complaining of stomach cramps. Later, as they vomited and slept, Elad and I sat in the hostel’s small garden, finishing the bottle of whiskey.
We talked about the city - how it was being built. I talked about my studies, and my plans - Elad talked about the Army. He had not wanted to be a soldier at first, but he loved it. I liked listening to him talk, and as daft as it sounds now, I was flattered that he was so open with me. He said he was going to leave Rachel - it had not been right for him.
I was quiet - even then, I knew that there is huge value in silence - and poured more drinks into the plastic cups. I leaned over to hand him his cup, and he put his hand on my knee. It landed gently, then he settled it, and imperceptibly stroked me with his thumb. I could feel he was looking at me.
I stared at his hand. The city fell away, and all I could see was his hand, tanned, perfect, on my too-skinny, bony knee. This moment has stayed with me. The road forked here, and thoughtlessly, as lightly as choosing a checkout in a supermarket queue, I picked up his hand, and told him to fuck off. Then I ran back to my room, my cheeks burning, and lay on my bed. Eoin was snoring, on his back, and the room stank of his puke and shit.
When we had packed to leave, Rachel kissed both of us on the cheeks- Eoin and I. Elad laughed and hugged Eoin. When he turned to me, he slapped me on the back, and told me to keep eating prawns and drinking whiskey. Everyone laughed. I couldn’t speak.
That was the last time. They have built this city up. It’s different now. I’m different. I’ve never been here before.
