Ear Tuning

People find pleasure in the strangest things – it’s the combinations that fascinate me: sitting in the dark watching escapist films are best complimented with crunchy, buttery snacks; attending baseball games seems to require ingesting weird tube-shaped “meat” products; great sex gets topped off (by some) with great lungsfull of smoke. How do we discover these obscure, complementary joys? Trial and error, I suppose. People tried eating salads in the movie theater and ended up with laps of dressing; no one had the energy to fold towels after sex…

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Our first week in Chengdu was…uncomfortable. Everything was a secret disappointment that neither of us had the courage to voice: our apartment was dim and miserable and reeked of mildew (we later moved); the sky was erased by masses of water vapor and exhaust hanging like cotton matting around buildings and inside our clothes; any dream of an ancient and “orientalist” China full of silk and mystique was crushed under the blaring and rampant consumerism that shouted from every sign, corner, t-shirt and flashing tv screen. Mao shared the main square with McDonald’s and Starbuck’s. No one actually rides bicycles (well, almost no one) – instead, the streets are choked with electric scooters like swarms of dusty mantises in lurid pastels. Riders wear fluttery shoulder drapes and drop-down visors that are little more than flimsy welding masks to protect themselves from UV rays. In my mind they are post-apocalyptic nuns in futile habits, their faces totally obscured by the dark plastic, their wraps strangely white and uniform as they scoot past on quietly electric wheels. We learned the rudiments of the bus system and spent hours being cramped, sweaty and lost. I remember using the word “deranged” several times.

And then, one afternoon, we stumbled on a teahouse. In my mind, the word “teahouse” conjures images of modest structures, humble patios, small wooden tables, darkened eaves. I see old men smoking quietly, lost in thought. I see long-necked water pots pouring from great heights. I see willows and water nearby.

This teahouse was none of those things, although the teapots did have long necks. This teahouse was spectacular, monumental – hidden from the street by a lush garden full of trees and roses, we only guessed its existence from two enormous guardian statues off to one side. We wandered in to find a palatial resort: waterways wove under bridges and paving stones, the golden flicker of fish moving beneath the surface; islands formed with wooden banisters, temple-like structures covered in carvings and paintings and elaborate stone; large open areas filled with glass tables and modern chairs, small hillocks with other temples, other tables; and a huge central structure announced with red carpets and attended by flawless women in satin and rigid poses, careful faces.

We stepped into an area near a two-storey open-air structure that was both elegant and lurid in its ornament, classic and yet somehow contemporary, covered in dragons and lilies and hung with red paper lanterns below. A beautifully effeminate man appeared at my elbow and asked in Chinese if we were there to drink tea. There is a strange quality to the language of the truly gentle here – it is always comprehensible. I nodded and smiled, “women yao he cha”: we want to drink tea.

He led us quietly to a table and asked what kind. We fumbled for our Rough Guide and flipped through the already worn and dog-eared food index for the list of tea characters. We settled on jasmine: “mo-li-hua.” He repeated it delicately, and I parroted it back under my breath several times, trying to catch his tones. It sounded lovely, just like the scent of the flowers. Mo-li-hua.

He returned not with the traditional cup-saucer-lid, but with large glasses full of leaves and blossoms, into which he poured freshly boiled water – from a great height – but careful not to splash. He smiled and we thanked him and he vanished, leaving us to marvel at the aroma and the way the flowers bob and sink in the hot liquid, the sounds of splashing from a nearby waterwheel, the endless variety of plants around us, the strange call of invisible birds in the bushes.

I felt myself begin to relax.

At a nearby table, a group of men talked and played card games. They had ordered a large number of “xiao-chi,” “small-eats,” or snacks, and were laughing and seemed greatly at ease. I looked over at their dishes more with curiosity than with hunger – our own food acquisition has been limited to deductive ordering from a translated list we carry at all times. Not being able to read menus, we have to guess what they have or point at the tables of others when we see something that looks good. Eating with locals is a wonderful stress relief both for us and for the poor servers that get stuck with us, as we do not have to go through the desperate and frustrating task of trying to communicate what we’d be willing to eat from an unknown list of options.

And then, we became acquainted with a pleasure combination that, as far as I know, is uniquely Chinese. Like popcorn and movies, it is a natural fit, unquestioned, time-tested, and totally expected.

At teahouses, you get your ears cleaned.

Well, Paul got his ears cleaned. I watched.

At first we weren’t sure what he was selling. Some strange form of auricular acupuncture, perhaps? If so, the needles were huge, and some were, well, fluffy. “I think he’s shaving me,” said Paul after the first few moments. I laughed, until I saw the man insert one of the instruments a good two inches into my husband’s ear canal – his one good ear, I might add. “I think he’s puncturing your ear drum,” I offered helpfully, but Paul was already frozen in an attitude that walked a fine line between terror and bliss. I’m sure he was fully aware of exactly how deep that thing had been inserted into his only connection to the world of sound. His eyes widened, but then he smiled and gave a very careful (keeping his head ab-so-lute-ly-still) thumbs up. I grinned and grabbed the camera. “Cool.”

One of the most interesting points in the cleaning was at the end, when the man took what appeared to be a tuning fork, struck it on the table, and then laid it gently across the tool he had in Paul’s ear, sending a vibration running all the way down the ear canal and into the bones of the head. I found myself dwelling on this for a long time, imagining the sensation and the slightly numbing and invigoration quality I thought it might have.

After the ear tuning, the man proceeded to give Paul a full-body tui na massage, right there in his chair, from shoulders to arms, and then upper thighs down to calves. The entire process took about an hour, during which I had ample time to listen to the conversations at other tables, wonder at the way the mosquitoes hovered but never landed or hummed, and delight in the fragrance and flavor of real jasmine tea – a delicate and complex pleasure that had never gotten my full attention before. In the U.S., we often forget to appreciate subtlety – our coffee is strong, we value “bold” and “new” flavors, we mash things together and serve things all on one plate to be shoveled in with forks and spoons. I would have been bored with jasmine, would have choked it with sugar or ice. The teahouse taught me to listen more carefully to the quiet things in my mouth, and marked my initiation into the sweet purr of the city beneath the clamor and filth – our entrance into an old culture of leisure and self-care, of taking time. We began to fall in love with Chengdu.

~ by knifemaker on September 7, 2007.