The bridge in front of the Guangdong Revolutionary History Museum.

Guangzhou, formerly known as Canton, the capital of Guangdong province, China, was once a hotbed of revolution.  Dr. Sun Yat-Sen, considered the father of modern China, led an uprising in 1911 that became the beginning of the end of the Qing Dynasty.

The Chinese Communist Party captured Guangzhou briefly from the KMT Government (Kuomingtang) during a 1927 revolt. This uprising resulted in the slaughter of 5,000 Communist soldiers and peasants at the hands of the KMT and the disappearance of an estimated 5000 more.

The above bridge sit in front of the Guangdong Revolutionary History Museum, in Guangzhou. This building witnessed the 1911 revolutionaries claim independence, and Dr. Sun Yat-Sen sworn in as the first president of China in 1921. It is part of Martyrs Park, the burial ground of the 5000 killed in the 1927 revolt.

Given the bloodshed it is a peaceful place, massive trees covering the bridge and water.

And as some of my blogleagues do: Here’s some music.

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The 2008 Beijing Olympic Games are over. Viewers have witnessed new world records, triumphs, defeats, and the Olympic ideals of athletic excellence and world cooperation. Yes, there was a doping scandal involving equestrian horses, but horses are too simple to be held responsible for their actions. Plus: Who watches equestrian events anyways?

China, the host of the games, raked in the medals. Chinese athletes competing in weightlifting, diving, judo, gymnastics, and shooting have had the pinnacle of athletics, the Olympic gold medal, placed around their necks, while watching their flag being raised and their national anthem played before a stadium of fevered spectators.

Most of these sports are ones a typical Chinese person would never have a chance try. Ping pong, badminton, basketball and football (soccer) dominate the national sporting psyche. Diving? Few citizens of The Middle Kingdom know how to swim. Gymnastics? If that translates to avoiding obstacles while running to catch a bus perhaps the average Chinese Joe has experience (and could be the next medalist).

Inside a Shenzhen (China) Metro train. It looks tame: Looks can be deceiving.

There is an event, one that takes place each day all across China: A super competitive melee that sees thousand of combatants, athletic and otherwise, engaged in a fiery battle.

It a combination of sprinting and gladiatorial combat. Only the strongest and smartest win, and they will never receive a medal, ovations, or a playing of the national anthem. The lucky few, the winners, only receive a seat. Yes: The Subway Sprint.

Boarding a Chinese subway train (The Metro is it is known in China) is an extreme sports, as dangerous as UFC fighting done while bungee jumping. There are no rules, scribed or unwritten. It’s a dog-eat-dog sport, all for a cherished seat on a train, a chance to rest the weary bones.

It goes like this. The monitors on the subway platform show all and sundry the next train is due in two minutes. The athletes start jockeying for position, loose huddles form around the glass doors that will open in less than 120 seconds. The proper procedure is to queue to the right and left of the doors, allowing the subway passengers to exit out the middle. This rarely happens. If elbows were daggers the pushing and shoving would rend deep wounds.

They wait, preparing. They size each other up. Does he have what it takes? Can she take the gold? No, I’m better trained. There’s a slight push, perhaps a microscopic shove, as more competitors crowd the doors. They glance at the other queues. Is there a better one with less people?

The monitor clicks: One minute.

Then: A rush down the escalator, down the stairs. The queues expand, becoming a living, breathing force of their own. Energy, karma, ectoplasm, and a thousand auras swarm like rabid killer bees.

The light of the train illuminates the dark tunnel. A pleasant, recorded voice says in Mandarin, Cantonese, and English that the train is arriving, mind your manners. The crowd tenses like coiled snakes. Adrenaline floods the systems of a thousand competitors, aged 8 to 80.

Mark Phelps at the 2008 Beijing Olympics. Hey Mark: I challenge you to the Shenzhen Subway Sprint. There will be no gold for you!

The train slows, the doors aligning with the station’s glass portals. You can almost hear the gnashing of teeth and creak of tensed tendons, ready to launch the athletes, full force, into the combative sprint.

With a double electronic chime the inner doors open. The crowd surges, a silent tsunami hitting an unsuspecting beach. The outer door, the platform door, the magic portal to a stainless steel bench and 20 minutes of relaxation, opens.

Then it’s over. The competitors, the strong and experienced, the sly and wily, are in the car and on a bench. You can almost see a colorful animated trail in their wake. The benches are full in three-quarters of a second. It’s over in a flash. A photo finish would never be fast enough to record the victors. The losers, knowing they never really had a chance, search for a rail to hold as the doors close and the train pulls away.

The Summer Olympics are held every four years. Subway Sprinting takes place a thousand times a day.

After three-and-a-half years I’ve seen a gold medal or two. At the right stop, on the right day, I can set world records. I leave the veterans in my wake, I’m a foreign interloper who know the game well. I’m sly, I’m a brute. I want a seat. This makes me dangerous, motivated.

Yes, the Olympic Games show the world athletic excellence. This excellence can be narrowly applied, like a high school education. Olympic Gold Medalists? I scoff. Bring me the hammer and javelin throwers, the skeet shooters, the weightlifters: I’ll show them competition. Put Mark Phelps in my arena, in my sport. He wouldn’t be in the top 100.

Images: Public Domain from Wikimedia, LA Times

There only sound in my apartment as the darkness descended was my hard drive spinning down. The monitor went black.  Everything went black. The entire apartment block was in darkness, powerless, with 30 minutes until the start of the Beijing 2008 Olympic Games Opening Ceremonies.

More distressing than missing the Olympic Opening Ceremony was the quest I had almost finished in WoW. The evil mage I was fighting was about to depart for the great hereafter when my apartment turned into a fireless, prehistoric cave. I cursed my luck. The mage and his minions would have to wait.

As much as China has progressed, and was about to demonstrate to the world from the Beijing Olympic venues, it is still a developing nation. In the midst of an affluent, gated community, power outages are not uncommon. Waking up in morning to no running water is not uncommon. I scavenged through the cupboards, lighter in hand, for the candle I hoped was there, if said candle survived my recent cupboard purge.

I made a cup of coffee, my hands blindly picking up bottles off the kitchen counter until I found one the right shape. A candle fired up, I listened to the commotion in the corridor outside my apartment.

My new neighbors were distressed. Their toddler, a cute little lad that had wandered into my apartment last week, was wailing. What happened, they asked. Does anyone have power? The occupants of several apartments crowded into the dark hall.

Do you have power?

No, you?

No.

Call someone.

Who? What’s the number?

There were harried words as the assembled searched for the maintenance office number. Digits were called from a woman to a man, in an almost panicked voice.

I could understand their concern. They were new residents. If there was no electricity they had nowhere to watch the Opening Ceremonies, and that wouldn’t do. The Olympics are a big deal in China, external validation of considerable national pride.

No one usually calls maintenance when the power goes out. They know it will come back on, eventually. There’s no need to make a phone call. I remember I spent one Sunday without electricity (or air conditioning). Fifteen minutes after tracking down the correct telephone number, and Mrs. Stevo making the call, the power magically returned. I should have done that five hours earlier.  That wasn’t the case on August 8. The seconds clicked by.

What did they say? When?

Soon.

I secretly hoped the power would stay off. I could go to bed early. After a year of Olympic mania I was glad the games were finally here, and would soon be over.

The toddler still wailed. His grandmother made some cooing sounds as she walked him up and down the dark hall. Two men exchanged a nervous chuckle, one said: Soon.

The electronic beep of the air condition was followed by the lights again being set aglow. There were no cheers from the hall, only sighs of relief. The occupants of three apartments returned to their abodes, 15 minutes left until the start of the Opening Ceremonies.

I would have to watch after all. Half-watch, there was still an evil mage that required my attention.

images: The New York Times

I mentioned I have two wedding anniversaries – one for the civil ceremony and one for the reception. My memory was betraying me, as it often does. There is a third anniversary for me and Mrs. Stevo: Qi Xi - Chinese Valentines Day.

We were married on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month, aka 7-7, aka Chinese Valentines Day (one of three, I believe), aka The Night of Sevens. It wasn’t planned. Our marriage was supposed to take place two or three days earlier, but I went to the wrong station, missed my train, and did not end up meeting the future Mrs. Stevo at the appointed time. We met, in her province, a few days later.

On the way to the station that fateful day in 2006, Mrs. Stevo mentioned it was 7-7. My knowledge of the lunar calendar was, and still is, limited. Lunar means moon, doesn’t it?  My understanding of this time system is that it wreaks havoc with holidays: Each year they are on a different day.

“It’s Chinese Valentines Day?” I asked.

“Yes, 7-7,” replied my almost-bride.

Some romantic chord resounded deep within me . We had to be married that day, The Fates were smiling blessings upon us. It was fortuitous; it was good luck, utter serendipity. I jogged through the station, Mrs. Stevo trailing in my determined wake. In the pitfalls that followed, a late train, less-than-knowledgably taxi drivers, and the summer heat that threatened to melt an unconditioned North American, I kept my eye on that prize. To be married on 7-7…

At the registry office, we said our vows, waited for the notarized “pink” wedding books, and then set off in search of a reasonable priced hotel.

“What is 7-7?” you wonder. What is Chinese Valentines Day? I’m glad you asked. Allow me to share…

Please note: There are many variations of this tale. I have combined some elements to make it comprehensible.

Once upon a time, there was a cowherder, named Nuilang (translated: Cowherder). He was a handsome orphaned lad that worked hard as a farmer. One day he spotted seven fairy sisters skinny-dipping in a lake. On the urgings of his mischievous ox, he stole their clothes and sat back to watch the show that would inevitably follow. The sisters selected the youngest and most beautiful among them, the seventh sister, Zhinu (translated: weaver girl), to retrieve their fairy garments.

Aside: The ox was an immortal from heaven, sent to earth in the form of an ox as punishment for his misdeeds in the heavenly realm.

Zhinu retrieved the clothing for her siblings and had Nuilang agree to marry her, as he has seen her unclothed.* The couple got along well, him a dutiful husband, and she a wonderful wife. They fell very much in love and had two children.

Zhinu’s mother, the Empress of Heaven, heard her daughter, the weaver of colorful clouds, had married a mortal. She was furious, as mothers sometimes are about what they perceive to be bad marriages.

She snatched Zhinu from earth and placed her back the heavens to resume her weaving. Niulang packed the kids in wicker baskets, and using the magically hide of his now dead, and formerly god-like ox, and gave chase. The Empress, using her hairpin, tore a river across the night sky (the milky way), separating the lovers forever.

Zhinu lives on the star Vega, and Nuilang on the other side of the night sky, lives on Altair, flanked by their children on the stars β and γ Aquilae.

In time, the Empress of Heaven was touched by their great love and took pity upon the couple. Once a year, the seventh night of the seventh month, she allowed all the world’s magpies to fly into the heavens. They formed a bridge over the river and allowed the lovers to reunite.

Qi Xi is also called The Festival to Plead for Skills (qǐ qiǎo jié), The Seventh Sister’s Birthday (qī jiě dàn), and The Night of Skills (qiǎo xī).

The Night of Sevens, Chinese Valentines Day, is celebrated by:

On Qi Xi, a festoon is placed in the yard and the single or newly married women in the household make an offering to Niulang and Zhinü consisting of fruit, flowers, tea, and facial powder (makeup). After finishing the offering, half of the facial powder is thrown on the roof and the other half divided among the young women. It is believed by doing this the women are bound in beauty with Zhinü.

Another tradition is for young girls to throw a sewing needle into a bowl full of water on the night of Qi Xi, Chinese Valentines Day, as a test of embroidery skills. If the needle floats on top of the water instead of sinking, it is believed to be an indication of the girl’s being a skilled embroideress.
Source: answers.com

Today, Chinese Valentines Day is one of matchmaking by parents and at speed dating parties. Astronomically, on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month the milky way appears dimmer, supporting the idea of a bridge between the two stars.

Happy Qi Xi, Mrs. Stevo, happy anniversary (again).

* Mrs. Stevo tells me in traditional China that if a boy saw a girl’s naked feet (Mrs. Stevo’s term) they had to wed. I asked if desperate girls attempted this as a way of coercing men into marriage. She would not dignify my question with an answer.

What do I like about China? (other than low taxes, cheap beer, and the availability of fried chicken.)

The stories.

In a country with 5000 years of recorded history there’s a tale or two to be told. While the Europeans were living in caves, a movie character once memorably said, the Chinese were building cities and sailing the oceans.

I mentioned double happiness in a previous post and promised the whole story. Let us look back to the days of the Tang Dynasty (618 – 907 CE). The Tang Dynasty is considered a renaissance of sorts, the golden age of Chinese painting, poetry and architecture. So, without further adieu:

Once upon a time…

…there was a young man, a student, on his way to the capital to complete his final examinations. The best and brightest, the students with the most outstanding exam results, would become ministers in the emperor’s court. The young man fell ill while making his journey and was taken in by a family in a mountain village. Lucky for the lad, the head of the household was a doctor. The physician and his pretty daughter treated the ill scholar and he soon recovered.

The doctor’s daughter fell in love with the ill young man as she tended to him. He, likewise, fell for his pretty, young nurse. After regaining his strength, it was hard to say goodbye. The girl wrote the right hand portion of a Chinese couplet for the student to match.

Green trees against the sky in the spring rain while the sky set off the spring trees in the obscuration.

The boy was stymied and told the girl it would take time for him to write the second part of the couplet. He promised to do so after his examination.

The formerly-ill student set out again for the capital, wrote the examination, and won top spot. While being interviewed by the emperor the lad was tested again. Finish this couplet, the king told the scholar:

Red flowers dot the land in the breeze’s chase while the land colored up in red after the kiss.

The student realized the matching part of the emperor’s couplet, the right side, had been given to him by his love. He wrote it down and gave it to the ruler.

The emperor was pleased and appointed the young man as a minister in his court. He was given leave to visit his hometown before taking up his post. Love-struck as he was, the lad returned to the girl’s village and told her of the emperor, the couplet, and his new job.

The pair was married. Using red paper, they doubled the Chinese character, xi, and hung it on their wall to celebrate two events, double happiness for their wedding and the young man’s new job.

They probably lived happily ever after.

The Chinese character 喜 (xi, pronounced she) translates to: happy. The Double Happiness, symbol often used in calligraphy, is a pairing of the character xi (see images). It is commonly used at weddings, and in the homes of newlyweds as a decoration. (There are three still hanging in my apartment. The one on the door is useful in giving directions. ‘Look for the door with the big red thing on it,’ I say to would-be visitors).

The hong bao, the red envelopes containing money, given at weddings, often feature the double happiness symbol. The symbol is most often red, but sometimes black. It is never white, as that is the color of death, and used at funerals.

The inspiration for this came from Carrie at My Several Worlds and her great post on the Chinese Cinderella.

Congratulations, D and E.

Captured (not by me, I was performing the service): July 14, 2008.