What happens in Shanghai

View of Shanghai from breakfast window

A calm lunch spot

Not everything is modern

On my recent trip to Shanghai I felt we were all in a dance. Every conversation was circular. Formal. Oh oh so polite. Meals had a protocol, not always visible but revealed like the lace beneath the skirt, slowly and carefully, if you were paying attention. (I admit at times to being too distracted by my inability to keep the slippery food, including cow's stomach, on my chopsticks to pay full attention at all times.)


Rush hour on the metro, where people might display their worst manners, was quite pleasant. Yes one must move quickly to avoid being run over, but there was no pushing and shoving like we often see here in Paris. When the metro was comfortably full the remaining people waited for the next one. No one held the doors open in order to squeeze into an impossible space.

Night view before they turn off the office buildings at 8PM

In the midst of such politeness however I did see some rather unpleasant behaviour. While having a nightcap in the hotel lobby bar one evening, I could not help but notice (i.e. hear) the group of American men at the next table. They managed to insult each of the beautiful servers in turn, apparently believing it was within their rights to do so. They propositioned each without grace (or effect). Their approach included asking where they could obtain a massage "with a happy ending". And following their lack of success with such classy moves, they expressed their disappointment in Shanghai's level of entertainment.

Impressive.

So I wonder: is this the typical behaviour of these men at home in the US? Or is this behaviour reserved for Asia, and based on some opinion about Asian women? Is it possible that the manners of this trio adjust as they travel throughout the world, and if so, how do they choose the behaviour best suited to that place? 

What a shame if the actions of this small group reflect more generally on a larger population. Although unrealistic as an expectation, it would have pleased me greatly to see the other men in the bar speak up, even if just to distance themselves from such inappropriate talk. Perhaps the lack of success with these tactics will be enough to change future interactions for the trio, but I would have been more reassured if they were set right by their peers.

This post is not intended to be a comment on American men. I am sure that many of us manage to insult others during our travels, hopefully without bad intentions. I wonder too if we have lost our ability to enforce good manners, now that we are so separated from others in our daily lives.

What do you think?

Flirting with Eye Contact

Flirting with Eye Contact

While wandering through Paris this weekend, a friend and I debated the pros and cons of making eye contact.

She avoids it. That way, she never has to fend off the clipboard people, the street vendors, or anyone who seems to have an urgent cause.
I, on the other hand, believe that eye contact makes life richer — that it opens small doors to connection, kindness, or something entirely unexpected.

Today, she may have scored a point.

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At the airport, I found myself in a long, slow line for passport control — wedged between what felt like an entire tour bus of fellow travellers.

Then it happened: I made eye contact with a security officer.
He motioned for me to step out of line and join him in what looked like a faster, more exclusive lane.

One point for eye contact.

He asked me to place my carry-on bags in the measuring frame, frowned at the size of my second bag, and weighed them both together.
“Four kilos over,” he announced. “Could you maybe lighten your load?”

Not easily. I was flying to Shanghai for four days and had been feeling rather proud of my minimalist packing.

He looked me over, as if calculating which part of my wardrobe might be expendable.
(And yes, I caught myself laughing internally at the idea that this young officer had any interest in me beyond my luggage weight.)

Then came the verdict: I’d almost certainly have to check my bag.

Point for the no-eye-contact team.

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And then, out of nowhere:
“When are you coming back?” he asked.
“Thursday.”
“You arrive Thursday?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Then have dinner with me on Friday, and I’ll let you pass.”

Seriously? That works?

I laughed, declined politely, and continued toward passport control, pretending the whole exchange had been an elaborate little joke.

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So, will I stop making eye contact?

Probably not.

If connection is a gamble, I’ll keep playing — even if it sometimes costs me four kilos and a dinner invitation.

One smart cow

The Cow Who Knew the Way Home

Today, I’m not writing about Paris or Rome.
I’m writing about somewhere far more rural — the heart of central France.

We’ve all heard stories of remarkably clever animals — Lassie, The Incredible Journey, or maybe our own pets who seem to know more than they should.
But none of them prepared me for this story.

It was told to me by a friend whose family has raised cattle for generations — and I mean generations.
In his region, if you mention his last name, someone will nod and say,

“Ah yes — I once bought a cow from them.”
This family knows cows.

One day, my friend’s father, Gabriel, bought a cow from his brother Jean.
He kept her for several years; all went well.
Eventually, he decided to sell her — back to Jean, the original owner.
(You can’t make this up.)

So Jean came on the appointed day to walk his cow the sixteen kilometres back to his own farm.
It was a good old-fashioned cattle transfer — on foot.

About halfway, Jean decided to stop for lunch — and, being French, a little wine.
He left the cow grazing peacefully outside the local café.
When he came back out — no one’s quite sure how much later — she was gone.

Jean wasn’t especially worried. He simply kept walking home.

And when he arrived — there she was.
Standing calmly in her old stall, waiting.
Five years gone, eight kilometres away, and she had found her way back.

Think about that.
Along the way she would have faced countless crossroads, turns, and distractions — yet somehow, she never hesitated. She just knew.

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I used to think cows were… well, not the brightest of creatures.
Now I’m not so sure.

Maybe she remembered every path, every scent, every sound of home.
Or maybe it wasn’t memory at all.
She just kept walking — steady, certain, and sober.
Which, come to think of it, made her the cleverest one of all.