In Which the Chinese Dream Is Mine

In the 1950s, Chairman Mao declared that a watch, a sewing machine and a bicycle were all a person needed to get by in this world. His successor, Deng Xiaoping, expanded on that notion by defining prosperity as "a Flying Pigeon in every household" -- Flying Pigeon being the most common brand of bicycle in post-revolution China.

However I may differ in ideology from China's leaders, I do agree on the part about bicycles. Bliss is found in the seat of my own flying pigeon.

Yes! I now have a bike! And it only took three failed attempts at communication, two hasty retreats from bike shops and one amateur Kabuki theater performance to acquire.

I really wanted this bike. I'd dream about having one every time I gazed toward the horizon and considered what could be out there. Desert! Farms! Mountains! Donkey carts! Oh, I was filled with longing. It's been fun walking everywhere, of course, but as I discoverd when I walked to the Iron Gate Pass -- 10 miles round-trip -- I tend to be seized with ennui/nihilism by mile eight or nine: This whole stupid world looks the same and I will never get home so I might as well die right here. In Nowhereville, China.

So, a bike! Hooray!

But not so easy to come by with my caveman Chinese. I strode confidently into two different bike shops, only to be confronted with assistants who insisted on smiling and trying to help me. They'd say something and nod encouragingly, pointing to different bikes. Then they'd say something else, with more nodding. Meanwhile, I focused on sweating and panicking. Finally, I had to admit, "Wo bu dong (I don't understand)" before fleeing and calling over my shoulder, "I'll come back later!"

After a soothing basket of bao-zi -- these steamed dumplings I can't get enough of -- I tried one more shop. This time, I snuck in the side door so I could look at some bikes before I was discovered. I spotted one with a frame that looked big enough at about the time a shop assistant spied me. I cut him off before he could say anything.

"Wo yao (I want)," I said, pointing to the bike and moving my arms in a pedaling motion.

He said... well, I don't know what he said, but he wrangled the bike from the rack and took it outside. After he adjusted the seat and handlebars and topped off the air in the tires, I rode it around and liked it a lot. I probably should have ridden more bikes, but I didn't want to press my luck.

"How much?" I asked, knowing what was coming.

"750 (about $110)," he told me.

I knew I would be expected to barter. And I hate bartering. No. 1, it makes me feel like I'm taking advantage or being taken advantage of and No. 2, as I might have mentioned, my Chinese sucks. But I do know all the numbers -- up to 999, at least -- so onward with the negotiations.

He said 750 yuan and I clutched for the pearls I wasn't wearing. 750! I swooned a little, letting him know that I'd never heard such a thing in all my born days. Why, I could hardly catch my breath! I made to leave, to go find a nice fainting couch somewhere, when he told me 690 yuan (about $101).

This time, I hung my head. Oh, this was sad news. About the saddest I'd ever heard. I shook my head mournfully. What was this wicked world coming to when a girl -- a stranger to this country! -- couldn't even have her own flying pigeon? Tragic.

He went over to the shop manager, who was standing in the doorway watching the proceedings, and came back with the offer of 660 yuan (about $96.50) and, I was made to understand, a free bike lock.

Sold!

I rode away from the shop with the wind in my hair, warmed by the spring sun and the glow of my success. I was the happiest flying pigeon on two wheels.


My new Precious. I call him The Chairman Mao.