吃辣的吗？(Do you eat spicy food?) – Hangzhou

It took traveling across China for me to realize that without any effort on my part I have acquired a Chinese geographic pedigree. My life here may be temporary, and my Chinese spotty, but when I tell people that I live in Chengdu their eyes light up. I have given them something that needs no explanation. It’s a recognizable background they can wrap around me and all of my foreignness. Being “from” Sichuan (the province of which Chengdu is the capitol) gives us all something to talk about.

So during my week-long stay in Hangzhou, a city far, far away from Chengdu on China’s eastern coast, when I would tell people that I live in Chengdu they would immediately focus on the quality that distinguishes the Sichuanese apart from their compatriots: the food. Each would ask: 吃辣的吗? Do you eat spicy food?

And it wasn’t just idle chitchat. They really wanted to know how my western palette was weathering Sichuan’s famous chili storm. I told them I love it and that I’m used to it now. And then I stopped myself from asking them where Hangzhou’s flavor went.

Not to say that Hangzhou isn’t a great city. It is. Being less than an hour from Shanghai it shares that city’s modernity and flair. Hangzhou’s streets are teeming with fashionable folks and there are options for killing time in fashionable ways – shopping, snacking, drinking. Chengdu has these things too. It’s just that Hangzhou has way more of them. (And they’re better dressed.)

And I hope I’m not betraying my Chengdu home when I also add that Hangzhou has fewer people spitting, fewer folks out on the town in fleece pajamas and/or fuzzy slippers, and fewer children using the sidewalk as a commode. That being said, I also had a hard time finding anyone playing mah jong. Spend a minute in Chengdu and you’ll discover that the clicking of mah jong tiles is the background music for daily life -- a life that unrolls in a more traditional, and relaxed, atmosphere.

However, even with its western style modernity, Hangzhou still teems with one of modern China’s most intriguing calling cards – the art of juxtaposition. Alleys still have those “hot peppers hanging next to a bra and socks” kind of moments that I love about this country.

Hangzhou’s most famous site is Xi Hu, or West Lake, and it’s the kind of place that punches China’s reputation for rampant pollution and ugly sprawl smack in the face. Its beauty is on par with Lake Como – with layers of hills cracking the background behind sprawling and gentle waters. Along the lake’s edges are small pagodas, and bridges, and a bustling park full of attention hounds demonstrating their singing, dancing and strumming. I’ve also heard that there are more than a few Starbucks in walking distance – as sure a sign as any of a hopping metropolis.

I stopped to talk with a few people in the park and most were visitors from other parts of China. Their main observation was that the air in Hangzhou was cleaner and clearer than where they live. I don’t know if this is a credit to Hangzhou’s excellent air quality, or a nod to the fact that most of China lives under unrelenting smog.

Regardless, everyone seemed to be enjoying a beautiful day at the lake except, perhaps, for a man who seemed to be the only local who couldn’t carry a tune. He was singing along with a group of musicians under a weeping willow and he was forcing the group to repeat a part of the song where the rhythm was escaping him. I hadn’t realized anything was wrong until one of the musicians took it upon himself to sing the part. The musician’s voice, and his rhythm, and the beauty of the song… that was the way it was meant to be sung. You could feel it.

The only problem is that after the musician was done perfectly singing the part, the other guy gave it another try. And another. And then another. After each unsuccessful go, the musician would patiently re-sing the refrain with the correct rhythm and the correct notes. And each time the man would charge ahead and blunder it up all over again. At first it was a charming and quirky interchange, but after five minutes I think we were all ready to switch to an instrumental.

I’m not sure that I’ve identified what makes Hangzhou’s cuisine special but we certainly ate well while we were there. There was a chicken that had been cooked in mud and tasted of anise. Hunks of meat with fatty robes. Seafoods in soups and sauces and shells. And a dessert coated in syrup that tasted of caramel and molasses.

And the funny thing is, a Sichuan dish was included at almost every meal I had in Hangzhou. Each dish was an honest approximation of Sichuan food but lacked the real heat and thrum that I have come to expect from my food. Seeing Sichuan food from the outside – seeing it from a dinner table far away from the actual place – really hammered home the realization that this food is special. And that it is even more special in Sichuan.

So thank you Hangzhou. Thank you for being a city I would love to live in, and thank you for being a city that has deepened my appreciation for where I live now.