different from a three-story house. Two full-sized beds dominate the space. A small coffee table with a single pink flower in a cut glass vase stands between two chairs. The large screened television is equipped with a remote control. There is even a closet and a separate door to the bathroom. All this just for one person. And I'll have this place all to myself for several hours!
I walk to the windows and delight in the view of the Bund and the Huangpu River. The shimmering reflections from the wintry sunlight on the brown waters have created a sense of austere mystery. The velvet burgundy drapery emits a sense of warmth.
Feeling like a novice thief picking a lock with a hairpin, I open the closet. The scent of light cologne comes out of the hanging suits: pinstriped, checkered, plain. None cut in the Mao tunic-style I am used to seeing. The tie rack looks like a colorful Chinese kite. I close the door and exhale.
The adjacent door leads to the bathroom. I peep in. There is a white tile water-flushing toilet with a beige, wood seat and a matching cover. A small basket of dried flower petals sits on the water tank, sending forth a pleasant fragrance. Steam pipes next to it are heating the space. A tub with a thick towel draped over its side. A sink with an oval mirror above. Two chrome racks with white and fluffy towels on them. Towels of three different sizes. The octagonal, white floor tiles and the violet blue tiles lining the tub form an artistic contrast. As I tentatively turn on the taps on the pedestal washbasin, warm water gushes out. I suddenly picture Teacher Gao's freezing, carrot-like fingers.
I can't help but think about the facilities I currently use at home. Every morning before going to school, I empty and clean the wooden barrel chamber pot in our building's toilet for women. Female residents straddle a ditch separated by five boarded-up stalls. A rope-operated handle in the front stall takes care of the flushing of the entire ditch. Since there are no toilet seats over the ditch, going to the bathroom is a test of one's leg muscle stamina, tolerance of odors and sounds from nearby stalls, and dexterity in avoiding being splashed when the front stall occupant flushes the ditch without warning.
A sink with three faucets connected by a pipe is available across the ditch for washing hands and cleaning chamber pots. The faucets are frequently frozen during winter. When I was a child, my hand once stuck to the middle faucet. The frozen faucet tore off a layer of skin like a piece of wrapper stuck on a popsicle. Blood dripping, I ran crying back to our apartment, where Mother dressed my hand with a drop of our precious, rationed cooking oil and a piece of cloth.
At this moment, admiring the soft, pink bathroom tissue near the toilet seat, I carefully tear off sections of the paper along the perforated lines and smell it. Then, holding my breath, I pick a rose petal from the dry flowers, sniff it, wrap it inside the tissue, and tuck it into the centerfold of my handkerchief. My souvenir from the Shanghai Plaza Hotel.
And the bathtub. It stands like a vase with the legs of classical style furniture. Gordon Lou's voice resounds in my ears: Use the facilities, if you wish. My heavens, do I wish! I can take a bath here! Without heat at home, it's always too cold to bathe in winter. I wish I had brought a change of clothes.
I let the warm water rise to fill the tub. The full-length mirror on the door begins to fog up as I peel off my clothes. Naked, in a trance, I stand watching myself in front of the mirror: dimples, almond eyes, double folded lids, long neck, long limbs, cascading black hair. Until now, this frontal view has never been exposed in its entirety, not even to myself. Somebody will love it, I think with a grin, caressing my own skin in relish.
As if pouring cooking oil into a hot wok to avoid splashing, I empty the bottle of "Foaming Bath Gel -- Musk" into the water with caution, marveling at the
I walk to the windows and delight in the view of the Bund and the Huangpu River. The shimmering reflections from the wintry sunlight on the brown waters have created a sense of austere mystery. The velvet burgundy drapery emits a sense of warmth.
Feeling like a novice thief picking a lock with a hairpin, I open the closet. The scent of light cologne comes out of the hanging suits: pinstriped, checkered, plain. None cut in the Mao tunic-style I am used to seeing. The tie rack looks like a colorful Chinese kite. I close the door and exhale.
The adjacent door leads to the bathroom. I peep in. There is a white tile water-flushing toilet with a beige, wood seat and a matching cover. A small basket of dried flower petals sits on the water tank, sending forth a pleasant fragrance. Steam pipes next to it are heating the space. A tub with a thick towel draped over its side. A sink with an oval mirror above. Two chrome racks with white and fluffy towels on them. Towels of three different sizes. The octagonal, white floor tiles and the violet blue tiles lining the tub form an artistic contrast. As I tentatively turn on the taps on the pedestal washbasin, warm water gushes out. I suddenly picture Teacher Gao's freezing, carrot-like fingers.
I can't help but think about the facilities I currently use at home. Every morning before going to school, I empty and clean the wooden barrel chamber pot in our building's toilet for women. Female residents straddle a ditch separated by five boarded-up stalls. A rope-operated handle in the front stall takes care of the flushing of the entire ditch. Since there are no toilet seats over the ditch, going to the bathroom is a test of one's leg muscle stamina, tolerance of odors and sounds from nearby stalls, and dexterity in avoiding being splashed when the front stall occupant flushes the ditch without warning.
A sink with three faucets connected by a pipe is available across the ditch for washing hands and cleaning chamber pots. The faucets are frequently frozen during winter. When I was a child, my hand once stuck to the middle faucet. The frozen faucet tore off a layer of skin like a piece of wrapper stuck on a popsicle. Blood dripping, I ran crying back to our apartment, where Mother dressed my hand with a drop of our precious, rationed cooking oil and a piece of cloth.
At this moment, admiring the soft, pink bathroom tissue near the toilet seat, I carefully tear off sections of the paper along the perforated lines and smell it. Then, holding my breath, I pick a rose petal from the dry flowers, sniff it, wrap it inside the tissue, and tuck it into the centerfold of my handkerchief. My souvenir from the Shanghai Plaza Hotel.
And the bathtub. It stands like a vase with the legs of classical style furniture. Gordon Lou's voice resounds in my ears: Use the facilities, if you wish. My heavens, do I wish! I can take a bath here! Without heat at home, it's always too cold to bathe in winter. I wish I had brought a change of clothes.
I let the warm water rise to fill the tub. The full-length mirror on the door begins to fog up as I peel off my clothes. Naked, in a trance, I stand watching myself in front of the mirror: dimples, almond eyes, double folded lids, long neck, long limbs, cascading black hair. Until now, this frontal view has never been exposed in its entirety, not even to myself. Somebody will love it, I think with a grin, caressing my own skin in relish.
As if pouring cooking oil into a hot wok to avoid splashing, I empty the bottle of "Foaming Bath Gel -- Musk" into the water with caution, marveling at the
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