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How we know our son (son!) is Chinese:
- He eats anything. Four legs and not a table, he eats it. Well, as long as it doesn’t take too much chewing.
- He loves things colored red. Red pages in the baby book, the red wipes package, a red and green rattle, red shirts — all get grabbed in a tiny hand and thrust immediately into a waiting mouth.
- He was born in China. This is the real giveaway. People on the street are always pointing this out, too. Ta shi zhongguoren ma? He’s Chinese, huh?
I was wondering, as we were taking another MAN-BATH after the rigors of Old Town shopping (Xiao Chongqing — Little Chongqing — is a marvelous district… tea houses with folk music, gift shops, and lots and lots of dogs) if any of the other families we’re with are doing their own laundry in the hotel. We’ve got a kettle, got a clothesline (plus the one built into the bathroom wall), got the detergent and the sink. Wrap ‘em in towels to squeeze the water out, then hang to dry for a day, and you’re *fresh*. Of course, your room gains a certain textile industry ambience, but I kind of like that.
Anyway, Old Town. I recommend it. There’s not much I can say that the dog pictures can’t — it’s much less urban cosmopolitan than the shopping district where the hotel is, there’s street food that’s safe for American stomach (fried crabs, pastries, whatnot), narrow streets, a great view of the river and lots of music in the air. And dogs, too.
I liked the dogs.
