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We piled into the minivan: three adults and four children under the age of 8, along with a jogging stroller, three Razor scooters, and seven bottles of ice water. Our adventure was set to begin.
I had just arrived in Guangzhou, China's third-largest city, and my niece, Jenny, along with her family, were excited to show me the sights. This was my first trip to China, and I was their first visitor since their relocation from Washington two years ago for my nephew-in-law's job with the State Department. Despite the dusk settling around us, the thrill was palpable.
My nephew-in-law, Brian O'Connor, navigated the minivan to a bustling outdoor shopping district—a place reminiscent of New York's Canal Street, but take it up a notch. We spilled out of the vehicle like a circus act, animated with smiles, props, and the exuberance characteristic of Americans.
"Look at this! Look at this!" Brian exclaimed, directing the children who dashed through the alleys on their scooters, weaving between pedestrians, motor scooters, and bicycles stacked high with recyclables.
The vibrancy of the area was overwhelming: colorful garments cascaded from every available surface, while heaps of diverse items sprawled across tables—socks, underwear, dresses, pajamas, hand-painted belt buckles adorned with Obama’s portrait, and even a shop that proclaimed "Produce Swimwear Gymsuit."
Shea, our 8-year-old guide, herded his siblings toward a stall bursting with socks, while Kiki, 6, paused to watch a group intently engrossed in a game of mahjong. Finny, our spirited 4-year-old, clad in a bright green soccer shirt, narrowly dodged a delivery cart. I followed, camera in hand, ready to capture the bustling scene.
It became a curious exchange, as we snapped pictures of the locals and they returned the favor, capturing our American family in their vibrant environment.
"The Chinese really have a fondness for children," Jenny remarked. "Traveling with four of them sparks a blend of surprise and admiration everywhere we go."
Guangzhou remains an underrated destination, overshadowed by the glitzy allure of cities like Beijing, Shanghai, and Hong Kong. However, a niche audience, consisting mainly of those involved in the import-export business or couples adopting children through the U.S. Consulate, have become familiar with its charm.
As a key manufacturing and commercial hub, Guangzhou plays host to the Canton Fair, the largest trade fair in China, held twice a year. This event sees an influx of over 165,000 visitors and showcases more than 55,000 booths filled with goods that inevitably fill the shelves of big-box stores back home. On my mid-October flight from Chicago, I found myself surrounded by businesspeople heading to this expansive affair.
Though we didn’t attend the fair, a day was spent at Onelink, a striking eight-story shopping haven linked to a 37-story tower dedicated to wholesale and retail buyers. The first floor tantalized us with an array of independent vendors selling intricately designed earrings, vibrant hair clips, chic handbags, decorative pouches, and an endless selection of playful toys.
The sound of inflatable dancing fish greeted us as we ascended the escalator, where lanterns glittered overhead. On Level 4, an assortment of housewares vie for attention—wine glasses, table linens, and kitchen gadgets shouted for my interest. It felt like a delightful cartoon world where my eyes widened with amazement at each turn.
Bargaining was part of the game here; most vendors were open to negotiation unless it was lunchtime or naptime. Some had a minimum order requirement of 1,000, but most items were available for individual purchase. Communication took on a playful format, often facilitated by handheld calculators and the frequent phrase "Best price!"—a euphemism that signified the end of bargaining at most stalls, yet, in the spirit of China, one could always attempt to negotiate further.
Understanding Local Customs
Driving in China is an unpredictable affair. Traffic laws seem fluid as vehicles drift into lanes with little regard for convention amidst a sea of cars, trucks, bicycles, and motorbikes, each uniquely laden with goods.
"It's all about filling every available space," Jenny joked as a car squeezed into our lane without warning.
This concept of filling space extends to Huadiwan, a market district where an entire wing is dedicated to selling fish—not for dinner, but for pets. With over 15 million inhabitants, each seems to own an aquarium. One Sunday, Brian and I ventured out with our toddler Lulu in a jogging stroller on what should have been a simple mission to buy fish food. However, navigating through this expansive labyrinth felt akin to a hedge maze, with myriad shops and aisles branching off in all directions. I trailed Brian past an assortment of tanks filled with colorful fish, marveling at everything from tiny neon tetras to imposing rays and sharks.
When I found myself lost in a particularly crowded aisle, with Lulu sound asleep in her stroller, I took responsibility for our navigational duties. As Brian called out to meet him at the plant store, he offered instructions—the familiar echo of “Go to the end and turn left!” But thirty minutes later, swirling around what felt like an endless loop and realizing I had no cellphone, a growing sense of frustration crept in.
The silver lining was that, amidst the confusion, Lulu stood out brightly enough that we drew some attention. The locals, it seemed, had a curiosity for our blond child adorned in her pink frills.
"Gu gu," I introduced myself, meaning "Aunt."
"There you are," Brian eventually found me, offering relief from my unintentional game of hide and seek.
The Essential Phrase
In Guangzhou, the possibilities feel limitless, but navigating local dynamics comes with its challenges. On a beautifully clear day, Jenny and I decided to drop the kids off at school before heading to Dong Shan Hu, a sprawling 33-acre public park offering fishing, boat rentals, and amusement rides for youngsters—though first, we needed to secure parking.
"What you really need to learn is the phrase Tin bu dong," which translates to, 'I hear you, but I don't understand what you're saying,'" Jenny explained with a grin. "Just smile and follow it up with a cheerful 'Bye-bye!'"
As we parked and began our stroll into the park, an official approached, gesturing and speaking rapidly, instructing us to repark farther down the road. Jenny, ever polite, paid for two hours, and we waved goodbye—our new mantra in hand.
Within the park, groups danced in various styles, far removed from tai chi or martial arts. Leaders with headsets led community dances, while others gathered to sing along with lyrics displayed on makeshift boards.
"Keep off the lovely lawn," warned one sign, juxtaposed with another proclaiming, "Excellent Toilet." Yet, my favorite translation resided 108 stories up in the Canton Tower, where a warning for the faint-hearted advised against stepping onto the observation deck's glass floor: "Visitors with the following diseases are not recommended to enter: acrophobia, high blood pressure, heart disease, labyrinthitis, headache, nosebleed, slimy doom." I chuckled, an indicator of the wonderfully quirky side of Guangzhou.
As Kiki, out of curiosity, questioned, "What are those fat masters doing?" she pointed toward the 500 Arhat Hall in Hualin Temple—a stunning reconstruction of a historic Buddhist temple. Here stood larger-than-life gold-painted sculptures of Buddha-like figures, each symbolizing different attributes of perfection. Traditionally, visitors purchase incense at the entrance, mimicking local customs as they bow and offer their prayers.
"Why are there peanuts on the altar?" Kiki asked innocently, another in a string of good questions. Outside the tranquil temple, vibrant street markets sprawled, particularly the jade market—bustling with vendors selling an abundance of jade trinkets and sculptures. The unending commerce amidst the serene backdrop of the temple captured the essence of Guangzhou; everywhere I turned, commerce was alive—not even stone slabs were devoid of the local flair, with some designed to mimic bacon.
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