Homer Brown, owner of BumperNets Inc, was recently selected to be part of a
group traveling to China to celebrate the 35th anniversary of the 1971
“Ping Pong Diplomacy” trip. While on the trip Homer traveled all over
China and met with some of the greatest Table Tennis players in the world.
He also got a chance to visit the Great Wall, model in a Chinese fashion
show, play in friendship matches, and experience “real” Chinese food. Take
a look at the photos below to learn more about his exciting journey.
The great wall close up. |
Our delegate group on the great wall. |
One of China's more famous gardens. |
Our USATT President, Sheri Pittman viewing Shanghai at night. |
Homer being welcomed at a school. |
Homer and China's super model preparing to go on stage. |
Homer Brown and Barney Reed showing off in the China fashion show. |
Homer Brown Serving the ball in a friendship match. |
Homer Brown and Mr. Liu Weijun Owner of Hongshangshu clothing
company at a symposium. |
Part of the group being interviewed for television. |
Homer Brown and doubles partner John Tannehill inside the
forbidden city. |
Homer in action at a friendship match with a close up of the
special uniform. |
Homer in action at a friendship match. |
Homer signing a ping pong paddle at a school. |
Homer visiting the town of Suzhoy, it's called the "Venice of
the east". |
Downtown Changshy. |
Sheri Pittman and Homer enjoying a park. |
Homer Brown in his BumperNets shirt relaxing a minute at "The
Humbler Administrator's Garden". |
“Ping-Pong Diplomacy” Revisited
by Tim Boggan
We were a group of Americans (limited to a party of 25) who with spring in our steps were invited to China on a goodwill trip to celebrate the 35th anniversary of “Ping-Pong Diplomacy.” Sponsoring our carefully prepared (Mar. 26-Apr. 4) tour was Mr. Liu Weijun of the fashionable Hongshanshu clothing company, ably assisted by the charismatic Zhuang Zedong (Chuang Tse-tung), the famous 1961-63-65 World Men’s Singles Champion, the two supported by an abundance of obliging officials who feted us with friendship everywhere we went—in Beijing, Shanghai, Changshu, Zhouzhuang, and Suzhou.
As in 1971, 15 of us, including the 7 “originals” in the group, had no expenses whatsoever; the remainder, for this everything-done-for-you trip of a lifetime, paid their own way. Getting much attention from the press were ’71 veterans Connie Sweeris, accompanied by her brother Bob and his wife Jan; Olga Soltesz; Judy Bochenski Hoarfrost, accompanied by her daughters, 20-year-old Megan, and 17-year-old Adrienne; Rufford Harrison, accompanied by his wife Marty; John Tannehill; former U.S. Team Captain Jack Howard; and me, Tim, who, in showing off my “Ping-Pong Diplomacy” book with its cover of Zhuang exchanging gifts with Glenn Cowan, quickly drew a bevy of photographers and journalists that brought photos of me in the next morning’s Beijing papers.
Though Glenn was no longer with us, his mother Fran, accompanied by Glenn’s cousin, Nancy Domash, was a favorite of Zhuang’s and his solicitousness towards her gave her special status and the media’s eye. A real trouper, and always a very appreciative one, she, too, as we continued our trip would have her picture in several papers. I also remember seeing an Olga/Connie photo and one with Rufford and Zhuang. Meanwhile, many of our own delighted in taking group or individual shots, and one photographer assigned to us, Wang Wei-jiang, familiarly known as “Roy,” was said to have taken about 8,000 photos!
Our U.S. leader and tireless, convivial spokesperson was USATT President Sheri Pittman, accompanied by her father Jerry and his vivacious wife Janet. USATT Executive Vice-President Dr. Jiing Wang was a most helpful interpreter; and other Board members Barney Reed, Sr., Khoa Nguyen, and Lily Yip who seemed indefatigably of service to everyone everywhere, were also always noticeably supportive. Impossible to miss were Ross Brown’s martial arts brawn and Homer Brown’s ageless on-court “shuffle.” In attendance for only one evening was Robert Blackwell, and for only a few days Anne Cribbs and Melinda Franklin, representatives of the San Francisco Bay Area’s upcoming World Junior Championships.
Mar. 27. This was our first morning together, and, after the ever-present, ever elaborate, East/West hot/cold breakfast buffet, we emerged from our 4-star North Garden Hotel in the downtown Wang Fu Jing area of Beijing at the expectant ready. Accompanied by an energetic, directing, but non-English-speaking Zhuang and an interpreter/guide, we were bussed off amid the near-chaotic bustle of big-city cars, horn-honking buses, pedaled bikes, electric bikes (charged every two days), motorized scooters, and scooting pedestrians all darting about, apparently just daring to be hit. Our destination? That monumental wonder of world architecture, the Great Wall.
No beasts of burden clogging the way this year. Times have changed. Down what used to be the Royal Street—all but the Emperor forbidden to live on it, traverse it….Past the big Beijing Gates where drums atop would beat out the alert that protection was imminently necessary. And if the warriors went out to fight, and lost, ah, could they, bringing dishonor, expect to return through these same Gates?
…On away from the city into a misty countryside and our guide’s warning about what severe sand and dust storms from eastern Mongolia might do to Beijing: seriously pollute water, soil, and plants—the wind-carried chemicals that very day choking the city, contaminating its air quality, causing harm to people’s eyes, skin and respiratory system.
Those who picked up the China Daily English newspaper from the hotel could read that 17,000 workers were already employed in construction work on 20 of the 31 Beijing-based sites for the 2008 Olympic Games, but that, in addition to the harmful sandstorms, the voracious American White Moth, unless somehow controlled, might “turn the green Olympics into a brown one by eating all the leaves from Beijing’s trees.”
As for the Great Wall itself, was it a stretch to say that it seemed indestructible? In the more than three decades since I’d been there many a visitor had read about it…”extends five thousand kilometers from east to west in north China like a gigantic dragon wriggling its way across deserts, grasslands, and mountains.” Began to be built in the 7th century B.C. Eventually the defense walls of private dukedoms were linked and other sections added. The Wall we’d see today was mostly the product of the Ming dynasties (1368-1644). Somewhere along the line, people began hearing, “One is not a hero until one reaches the Great Wall.”
Fittingly, on entering, we heroes and heroines were given a commemorative keepsake: the tourist’s “Ticket for the scence spot of Badaling sencyion of the Great Wall of China.” A scenic section indeed—the color-filled picture books pushed on us for purchase showed the ever-extending Wall with its chess-castle turrets winding into Fairyland clouds afar. But, alas, cold Reality threatened the Imagination: hordes of tourists, foreign and domestic, stretched unendingly up the steep slopes and steps, and back down again. In the 35 years since I’d first set foot here, the Wall had been mightily invaded.
The many booths lining the way, structured between Time’s remembrance and the photo-ops of the present, seemed bizarre. Trinkets of all kinds were the moment’s bargained-for souvenirs—along with Jack’s “must” buy of an “I Climbed the Great Wall” shirt that he hoped would psych out his Chinese “Hold ‘Em” poker rivals. All in all, a heady experience. The more so when hawkers thrust a deep-set cap with ear-flaps at you—which, unless you had a head-covering to withstand the cold on your upward trek, it would have been a mistake to refuse, especially when it was practically given to you at a start-to-walk-away, settled-on 20 yuan price (no more than $2.50). A bazaar below; and then above…who would believe it was possible there to mount a camel! But at one of the turret stops, as you peered through an embrasure, perhaps taking aim with your camera, there it stood, firmly just below, an incongruous saddled sentinel, looking out, its back to the throngs who clambered behind and above it.
On our return, at a toll stop, I was surprised to note plates fastened onto the booth stalls advertising: “Pine Valley Golf Resort and Country Club.” Also, during this and other such rides several McDonald’s could be seen, even more KFCs, a Domino’s Pizza, a Mr. Donut, and a Friday’s. Unusual were the countdown lights giving you so many seconds before 30-29-28…4-3-2-1 you were obliged to stop. And yet with cars and bikes swerving, buses tail-gating, pedestrians scurrying or even walking almost casually here and there as if unmindful of the many veering vehicles, it was a wonder we didn’t see a serious accident. Ironically, Mr. Liu was later given a ticket for not wearing a seat belt.
After lunch, the Chinese Table Tennis Association welcomed us to what was called a symposium. There were diplomatic speeches by ITTF past-President Xu Yinsheng, currently the CTTA President, and his CTTA second-in-command Li Furong, both members of the World Champion Chinese Teams of the ‘60’s. Following a happy-to-be-here acknowledgement by Sheri, moderator Yu Bin heard from some of the “originals”—Olga, for example, feeling honored, offered thanks, and Tim told anecdotes about the varied Chinese he’d met back in ’71.
Zhuang’s presence was noted, but he who was so popular elsewhere did not sit at the presiding table with World Doubles Champions Zheng Minzhi and Zhang Xielin (coach to our Gao Jun for a time), and the officials sitting there seemed cool to him. He had, after all, so we’d heard, offended those in power and had spent four years in prison, though upbeat while there for he was allowed to read and write. “The best place to study” he’d reputedly said. And to think that when he was young his father once broke his racket for not studying enough (which so depressed Zhuang that his mother gave him money to buy another). Lily told me that Zhuang had maybe 100 speaking/coaching engagements a year, and for a small sum she provided several of us with a copy of his autobiography, the cover of which showed him with his Japanese wife (“A true love story,” our Jiing said). These he carefully calligraphically inscribed.
And now for more history—140 years of the gourmet’s Quanjude Roast Duck, the assumed epicurean delight of our first dinner…that is, Peking Duck for everyone except John who—on being denied (what?) a detox diet of Wheatgrass, Xsula, Yakult, Multibionta, and Zinc?—settled for platefuls of greens (and a mushroom/tofu desert?). I’d never noticed it before, but John who plays table tennis right-handed does everything else left-handed. He’d amuse himself by going out for a morning jog, or run repeatedly up and down flights of stairs.
Mar. 28. After our sponsor Liu Weijun’s Press Conference, where again we were the subjects of interviews, we all went to Hongshanshu’s Fashion Show at the 5-star Beijing Hotel, and there, strutting their stuff with nary a discernible trace of nervousness, were our very own—Janet, poised, smiling; Olga in control, pleasantly flaunting her skirt a bit in recognition of our close-up encouragement; Judy with upswept hair and in curvaceous red; and her daughter Adrienne, looking, as she walked towards us, just as sophisticated as applauding older sister Megan in her strapless cocktail dress: indeed, perhaps Adrienne looked too sophisticated, for she got a “Not on your life” response from Mom when the most experienced of the male models approached the 17-year-old asking for a date. Also gamely there, brazen to the runway beat, though without the fashionable duds, were Barney, Khoa, Ross, and Homer who backstage had watched fascinated as the professional models, unselfconsciously to any observer’s gaze, hurriedly, skillfully changed again and again into their many stylish outfits.
After the Fashion Show, several of us accompanied Zhuang to a nearly deserted bar in this, the best hotel in Beijing, where I ordered a martini and got a small glass of unchilled gin, sans olive. Bummer. Zhuang told us that in 1971 both Chou En-lai and Mao Tse-tung had nixed the idea of inviting the Americans into China. But then Mao had seen the photo of Zhuang and Cowan and reversing himself had personally phoned Zhuang to tell him he’d changed his mind—the Americans were welcome. Thus it was that 35 years later Zhuang took a special interest in Glenn’s mother, furthering the Zhuang-Cowan tie and reinforcing his version, not the only one, of how the invitation came about.
That evening we attended the ever de rigueur Banquet—this one hosted by the affable but low-key Mr.Liu. If you sat at an official’s table, enjoying the 20 or so delicacies slowly spinning by you on the lazy Susan, you’d better be prepared to exercise—to repeatedly jump up and toast your new comrades with beer and wine glasses quickly refilled before you could empty them—and to smilingly tolerate in friendship an habitual Kings Filter cigarette or two or three. (The World Health Organization says that in China 64% of the men smoke as opposed to 26% in the U.S.)
On coming back to our North Garden Hotel everyone was pleased that Judy was handing out what she’d asked for on this historic occasion and had so generously received from Joola—track suits, shirts, and shorts for everyone on the tour. So invigorated (and hungry?) were Homer, Barney, and Khoa that they went out for a little walk and ended up in some side-alley, unnamed pizza place where Homer insisted he drank Belgian beer.
Mar. 29. We were bussed by Tian’anmen Square, where at any one of repeated gatherings from Nov., 1965-Nov., 1966 a million Red Guards massed to solidify the Great Cultural Revolution. Later, in June, 1989, it was an infamous site, for protesting students were massacred there, which our guide said many millions outside of Beijing were totally unaware of. (A lot of backwardness in west and north China—many still living by candlelight.)
We were dropped off for an extended stroll through the Forbidden City, now called the Palace Museum. Renovations had been going on there since 2002, and the building housing the crown and war rooms of the Ming/Qing dynasties was about to get its first facelift in more than 300 years. Everywhere you looked there were lines and lines of visitors (as at the Wall, many more domestic than foreign), with lots of groups wearing the same color of apparel, chiefly matching caps (more baseball-like than the fold-up floppy one our Bob wore), all following a leader carrying high a don’t-lose-me flag.
Well-preserved as a Museum-City, it’d been around for 600 years. Any picture- book of the place would tell you that it’s the “most intact architectural complex of palaces in the world.” That it “occupies an area of over 720,000 square meters with 9,000 bays of halls and rooms.” A meter is 39.37 inches—but never mind the arithmetic: it’s BIG. The “surrounding walls are 10 meters high and 3,428 meters long,” and it has a moat “52 meters wide and 3,800 meters long.” Deep inside for five centuries Ming and Qing rulers were protectively ensconced. Not only was it forbidden for anyone uninvited to enter the City, but it was forbidden for those in the City to venture out.
Again, plenty of photo ops—a favorite being the brave pose before the claws of one of two ferocious-looking bronze lions. Which is the male and which is the female?—that was every guide’s requisite question to the visitors. And a reminder to me of the journalists’ “safe” query: “Mr. Boggan, what changes do you see in China since you were here last?” Now, would you believe, as we passed through courtyards, up steps and down, into and out of halls, going from one end of the City to the other, we noted not only modern restroom facilities but an ATM machine…and also a Starbucks! The two suggesting coffee, danish, and juice for a weary tourist group of 50?
As usual, we were treated to a celebrity lunch—with, as usual, the young women servers all lined up welcoming us with smiles as we entered the bright-bannered “Ping-Pong Diplomacy” restaurant, our chopsticks and place settings waiting for us resplendent. Then the upright napkin placed partially under our large immoveable show-plate to dangle there conveniently for hand and mouth use, never to be dropped during the course (courses) of the meal. Among the staples I could recognize at lunch or dinner, to be washed down by tea, bottled water, wine, or beer, were various soups, rice with lots of egg, fish of varying kinds, different mushroom dishes, pork, an unsuccessful attempt at beef, shrimp, tofu, eel, eggplant, various greens, and also some gelatinous, custardy, or sweet things, perhaps known only to our group’s Gourmet Reviewer, Nancy. As always, it was a meal fit for an Emperor.
At Zhuang’s table tennis club at the No. 4 Primary School of Zhongguancun everyone in the U.S. contingent was given a bouquet of flowers, while Chinese greats Xi Enting and Liang Geliang seemed amused by it all. Someone told me that relatives of Chairman Mao and Premier Chou were in the audience, but that they weren’t introduced with the other dignitaries. Sheri, reiterating her tour-theme of preserving the Ping-Pong Diplomacy legacy for friendship generations to come, had her counterpart in a young student addressing us all in a very sure, VERY strident voice.
How, afterwards, the matches went, I couldn’t much tell, but I believe only John and Olga won, so we got the worst of it. I played a 1-game mis-match (fellow kept giving me high topspin to hit and I wasn’t up to it); thereafter I was preoccupied fielding such questions as “What was Mr. Cowan like?” Two Chinese who years ago I’d helped with information about our ’71 trip showed me their Ping-Pong Diplomacy books, which I and others in our group autographed. Meanwhile, the great majority of the audience was made up of school children and I could hear them whooping and applauding for the home team. It was a fun scene.
Following play we were taken to a seafood restaurant where someone in authority finally had more sense than we, still picking at the dishes, did, and called a halt to it all by bringing out the meal-ending watermelon. Here we were presented with a souvenir dinner plate with Zhuang’s calligraphy on it, the inscription reading either, as one interpreter put it, “The little ping-pong ball explodes to the world!”, or, as another had it (more to my liking), “The little ball pushed the big ball forward.”
Mar. 30. We paid a visit to the Beijing Children’s Activities Center where we introduced ourselves—Connie, I remember, proudly bringing in her son Todd as an Olympian, and me proudly bringing in my National Champion sons and Eric’s world-class status. I think it was here, in a room where two tables were set up, that Sheri took on Zhuang and won a point from him. Children pressed round, delighted with our handshakes and autographs—though here or somewhere a girl with pen in hand approached Jack, asking who he was. When he said, “Jack Howard,” she shook her head negatively and hurriedly walked away, not wanting his autograph. This reaction, with a little laugh, he delighted telling everyone.
The Beijing #2 Middle School was quite something. It had been in operation 80 years—and during this time Zhuang’s mother and Zhuang himself had been in attendance here. A classy 60-page brochure given us, with photos representing every school discipline or activity shared by teachers and their pupils, indicated that it encompassed the 7th through 12th grades and serviced 2,400 students. It was very modern—with a closed circuit TV system and a computer network. We were brought before a student body, where the Principal of course warmly greeted us, and Yu Bin, doing heavy duty on this trip, was again the moderator. Yu, along with Zhuang, would have to return to Beijing in a couple of days for the 50th celebration of China/Japan relations (China having played in its first World’s in 1955). Presently China/Japan needed some “Ping-Pong Diplomacy,” for relations between the two countries were strained due to Japan’s Prime Minister’s insistence on visiting the Yasakuni war shrine, a symbol of Japan’s past militarism.
Sheri on being introduced said some appropriate words, then, as was her custom, asked us one by one to identify ourselves. I ended by throwing the students kisses. One well-rehearsed question (from an English major?) asked anyone in our party to respond to “What differences are there now in China from when you were here before?” Jack’s immediate reply to the speaker was, “One difference is that you weren’t born when I was here before.” Which drew a chuckle. He later closed with not a difference but a similarity, “Before, the Chinese were the world’s best players; now, the Chinese are still the world’s best players.”
Then we were off to explore the “Children’s Palace,” with its “Museum of Notables,” its striking courtyard fountain, and its grounds and structures laid out like a mini-Forbidden City. Here it was possible to train for 55 sports, and here young Zhuang had practiced his table tennis. Of course we were shown the requisite room where 10 or so tables were precisely spaced and chairs lined a wall.
Lunch this day was spectacular, for we all had Mongolian fire pots, our own little stoves, in front of us. When the water boiled, our young women servers began cooking lamb, beef, vegetables for us, dipping them into a traditional brown sauce. Again, were it not time to leave Beijing for Shanghai, the pots might have flamed through the afternoon.
We were all worried about inter-China-travel weight restrictions…needlessly. China’s very capable Liu Yi, “Karen,” who’d be a Delegate at Bremen, expertly took over, gathered up our passports, matched them to the already purchased tickets, provided porters for our excessive luggage, and we were all whisked through security like VIPs. When we arrived at the Shanghai airport we were met by high school flower girls who not only gave us bouquets but carted our luggage to waiting busses. We didn’t stay in Shanghai but were driven perhaps an hour and 45 minutes northwest to Changshu where, arriving at our 5-star International Hotel, all was in readiness for us, including a dinner that pleasantly surprised Olga, for it offered her steak and French fries. Ordinarily to enter your hotel room you stuck the card-key into a door slot; but with this one you merely drew the face of it across a similarly positioned marker. Then to turn on the lights, you needn’t keep your room card in the activator, where you were in danger, on leaving, of forgetting it; instead, you merely inserted one of Homer’s ubiquitous BumperNets cards. That apparently worked on any activator in China.
And speaking of being worked on, apparently Sheri and John had very different experiences with massages, wanted or not wanted. Later, on my return to Beijing (my flight was delayed, I’d missed a connection, and had a 24-hour layover), I was awakened in the middle of the night at my Air China Hotel by a phone call. “Do you want a massage?’ said a male voice. “No,” I said sleepily. “Pretty girl,” he persisted. “No,” I said, “I don’t want a massage.”
Mar. 31. Shanghai! To one of us it was “The most impressive city I’ve ever seen!” To another it was “Just a bunch of big buildings.” High rises there were—more than 500 of them! And in a creative variety of shapes—surreal almost, by day or night, like Tim Burton’s Gotham City waiting for Batman. In one was the Hyatt—tucked in, you might say, between the 55th and 88th floors, the highest hotel in Asia. And there was the “Big Ball” with its ascendant needle-like spire, officially known as the Oriental Pearl Tower, rising up 468 meters. It had both the highest TV tower and the highest revolving restaurant in Asia. (For the moment anyway: plans are for a Tokyo tower to be 600 meters; and a Dubai one, scheduled for 2008, was reported to be 800 meters!) We went sightseeing up 263 meters. Ah, and where was our Ho Ping “Peace” Hotel, Shanghai’s pride of 35 years ago? Yes, it was still there, though certainly not to be seen from our new heights.
As for last year’s World Championship venue, we had to check that out. And the look of an adjacent outside Sports Stadium from a private box inside. We also visited the well-known Fudan High School that, having been founded against Imperialism, having supported a student revolution against Feudalism, was celebrating its 100th anniversary. Proud of its heritage, this private school housed a Museum that featured portraits of all 14 principals since the school’s inception. Looking at the items displayed we were surprised to see in an enclosed case a bell with the imprint: “made in USA.”
Just before lunch we took a little walk along the Zigzag Bridge adjacent to the restaurant. It went of course this way and that. Why? To keep the evil spirits away. Because, as anybody knows, these spirits can’t turn; they can only go straight. Very soon I came to a point on the bridge overlooking a good luck pond. Maybe good spirits were supposed to hang out here, attracted by the money, for pieces of change had been tossed in by passers-by. On the other hand, maybe the evil spirits had learned a thing or two over the years. One man had stopped and dangling a magnet on a little pole had furtively fished out a silvery coin.
As usual we had a spirited lunch, then it was time for another friendly match. We didn’t do badly. Our Olympian Khoa killed his opponent. John won in 3 (“Undefeated in China,” he said) against a guy wearing what looked to me like an old green Army cap. Connie took a game. And Jack, though losing two straight, played to 20-all in the 2nd, swatting backhands in to get ads but being unable to finish. Though the Browns didn’t play, one of them came out the big winner, for Zhuang patiently showed his calligraphic skill on Ross’s yellow t.t. traveling bag.
That evening we were scheduled to go shopping after our Shanghai Banquet, but Olga, Connie, Marty, Jan—in fact, almost everyone—preferred we take a leisurely boat ride on the Huangpo River that gave us the unforgettable skyline of the city at night. Look one way and you’d see not the call for Batman but “Shangri La” in the sky and the lit up Aurora Building with its 25-story screen showing scenes as divergent as birds and art masterpieces; look the other way and you’d see crowned, pillared buildings tinged all golden against the black sky. Meanwhile the river was a contrasting dark where to the side of us spectral boats and barges, unlit and seemingly unmanned, gradually surfaced into sight, hulking there, no, slowly edging along, as if having risen, submarine-like, as we passed. Better not hit them. Then, back on shore, we were off, dozing in the bus on our return to Changshu, Mr. Liu’s home turf, a monied community of maybe 1 of China’s 1300 million.
Apr. 1. The venue of the Changshu Welcome Ceremony had a spread-out red banner of the kind we’d seen and would continue to see everywhere we went: Hongshanshu Goodwill Tour. “Ping-Pong Diplomacy” 35th Anniversary Commemoration. Visit of U.S. Table Tennis Delegation to China. Mar. 26—Apr. 4, 2006. Following the protocol openings, Sheri again introduced the U.S. contingent, urging the “originals” to say some words. Judy, I remember, identified herself as having attended 4 World Championships, and I took the opportunity, “Ping-Pong Diplomacy” book in hand, to explain the cover picture, which was not taken the day Zhuang originally presented his gift to Glenn, but later, after Glenn had had time to find his gift in a shop in the bowels of Nagoya—the red, white, and blue, peace emblem flag of a shirt with the words “Let It Be” written on it. Though the focus is on Glenn and Zhuang’s gift to Glenn, the all-important exchange is there: Zhuang is holding that folded “Let It Be” shirt. Sheri’s dad, Jerry, valued his copy of the book—said they ought to make a movie of it. Alright with me.
At the Banquet lunch, we learned that Changshu had 10,000 t.t. enthusiasts and that they had a City team participating in various competitions. I complimented one of the earlier speakers at the ceremony, told her how nice it was to see someone nodding interestedly, animatedly as the Americans spoke, and she said that, yes, her sons had told her how important it was to listen and with a pleasant expression.
After the Banquet we were given a police escort to the Yushan/Shanghu Park complex where I believe we were greeted with a welcoming band, all the youngsters playing, as Rufford noted, without a sheaf of music in front of them. As we made our way to the planting area, the path was lined with park-going parents and their children, almost all of them eager to shake hands with the visitors as they passed by. Up on the speaker’s platform there was a gigantic wooden racket and, as we’d done with a previous one, we again stepped up and signed our names to it. Since there were maybe a half-dozen trees to be planted, we all took turns shoveling dirt into the soft earth (“God helped us, gave us last night’s rain” a speaker had said).
The trees were sequoias, named by an American Indian scholar in the 1840’s—remembered by Mr. Liu as the kind of California “redwood” tree that President Nixon planted on his 1972 visit to China. Considering these trees grow to a height of 300 feet and live as it were forever, the symbolism of an enduring U.S.-China friendship was unmistakable. “Hongshanshu,” the name of Mr. Liu’s Company, may be translated as “Redwood,” so his “Ping-Pong Diplomacy” alliance with Zhuang/Cowan (Fran Cowan) and USATT President Pittman made perfect promotional sense. We, with our “originals,” were delighted to further the historic link, and of course considered ourselves the lucky recipients of Mr. Liu’s unrestrained attention and generosity.
His liberality in spirit, in act, was never more apparent than when we visited his clothing factory and were each given 5 sport shirts and then fitted for a suit! He was a wonderful example of the achievements of this Haiyu Township that in 1978 had a National Production Value of 2061 million and now in 2006 had climbed to 7023 million. We didn’t visit NanJing, the Brocade Museum there, but in return for a late-night interview I was given one of their famous hand-woven, intricately patterned silk ties.
A strange occurrence at one of the Banquet tables. Embarrassing were it not for the fact that we all know it can happen in the best of places. A cockroach scurried by, but John, a vegetarian, didn’t consider it a served delicacy he’d be interested in, and with his quick hands, not his teeth, crunched it.
Apr. 2. This morning we visited the Zhang Lake Park—7 islands there, and a famous Peony Garden (200 varieties, 8 colors). Costumed dancers performed, then urged us to join them, which women from our group did but not the men. Kite-flying was popular in this park (who first flew them, I wondered, when and where?). In an encased well-like setting, we viewed 4,500-year-old tools. Then, moving on, we had lunch at an attractive garden restaurant, the size of a large super-market—where waiters on roller skates busied themselves among packed tables.
Now for our final Friendship Match. It was held at a Changshu school where a teacher welcomed us with, “We have so many friends coming here, our school looks even more beautiful,” and kids waved at us from their seats. How’d we do this time? Lily was beaten—so had to have drawn one of the best of those 10,000 city players. Judy and Olga lost. Ross went down in 4. John’s streak was stopped—he was finally beaten in China, 11-9 in the 5th. Homer played ball after ball steadily from both wings, but lost 12-10 in the 5th—ohh, on an edge ball.
But Connie won, 11-9 in the 5th. And Jack won, 11-9 in the 5th, acknowledging that his opponent “had complete control.” Actually, Jack had been sneaking in a couple of morning practice sessions with Lily in a building next to our hotel that had a table for hire. He was extravagant in his praise for her as a Coach—in a short time he’d learned as many different things as there were revolving dishes at one of our Banquets. Her precise instructions on how to time the ball and angle his racket so as to forcefully hit forehands against lobs paid off, for he again and again pummeled away at his cooperative opponent. Other exhibitions involved schoolchildren, a new generation of ping-pong diplomats, coming out to play the old. Judy, paired against a young ringer with beautiful strokes, slashed in a fabulous counter to deuce it up, but took her loss with a gracious smile. An official sportingly played Lily who drew laughter and applause on ending their match with a behind-the-back shot.
Before dinner an attempt was made to visit a multi-story downtown department store, but for many the goods weren’t what was wanted, floor after floor was too much like home. Of course there were differences: an unusual number of salesgirls there, but often standing about with nothing to do, sometimes lost in thought; still, there were local customers enough to warrant a public Men’s Room, where the stalls had no toilet seats and no toilet paper.
Apr. 3. The last day of the tour, for tomorrow we’d all be leaving in various morning shifts for the airport. Our bus ride past the often seen yellow fields of rapeseed (it produces an oil lubricant) and an occasional outdoor pool table (far more of them out there than you’d think) brought us first to the famous water town of Zhouzhuang. Its 900-year history had been preserved with 60% of the residents still living in the ancient houses along the river spanned by 14 bridges. (One aged man I saw washing his clothes in a canal as throngs of tourists passed by.) Most famous, said our guide, was the so-called Double Bridge. In 1984 an oil painting of it by an expatriate Chinese living in America became well-known enough to be put on a United Nations postage stamp. It’s a story-book place—where a bridegroom is urged to carry his bride across three of these bridges; and a wealthy married man is paddled off into the night to visit, supposedly unbeknown to his wife, his concubines.
One talked-about residence was Shen’s which had 7 courtyards, 5 doors and 100 connecting rooms. Another was Zhang’s where “sedans go in by the front door while boats pass through the [70-room] house.” You enter one of these olden-day millionaire’s homes and you may see an up-to-date sign that says, among other prohibitions, “No spitting. No firecrackers” (to ward off evil demons, for these Chinese were very superstitious). As you go from room to room there are 6-inch-high solid entranceway rail obstructions you must step over. They’re there to keep out the evil spirits (who are thought of as being very short, unable to get over these barriers).
One passes through a Men’s Tea Room (maybe business talk here), followed by a Women’s Tea Room (maybe mah-jongg played here). Continuing on, there’s a kitchen. A back-hall dining room. A home-study schoolroom. Hanging on the wall of one house, I remember, was a tapestry chart showing 100 different figures for the same word—that ought to be in a classroom. In one room of one well-appointed house, there was a famous man pictured sitting Buddha-like, several slabs of gold in his lap. He was the Zhouzhuang “Father of Foreign Trade” (grain, silk, pottery, handicrafts) who made his fortune through use of the local canals leading to Shanghai and the outside world.
After we’d had lunch at a former farmer’s house converted into a restaurant, we used our free time not by taking a gondola ride but by wandering about the tourist-booth byways in search of “different” little presents to take home. I came upon Khoa buying two lockets, each with a daughter’s name engraved within on a small kernel of rice. I got two too, for my wife and sister-in-law. Khoa, urging me not to settle our bill too quickly (“We have to go lower, go lower”), did the successful bargaining.
Our last tour stop was in Suzhou—and because the 2,500-year-old “city proper and its outskirts are crisscrossed by numerous rivers spanned by many arched bridges,” it’s called the “Venice of the East.” Since no wars were carried on here, many refugees came down from the north to enjoy its paradisiacal tranquility. Today we were visiting “The Humble Administrator’s Garden”—one of the four most famous gardens in China. Five hundred years ago an imperial official began supervising the construction of this garden and was doing so well with it, gaining so much attention, that the Emperor, feeling his own power threatened, fired him from his official position. Hence, it’s sometimes called “The Unsuccessful Politician’s Garden.” But that was o.k.—he cultivated his garden not for sightseers but for his own home satisfaction, a labor of love.
Here, too, was an entrance warning sign: “Travelers should be civilized and polite. No urinating in the garden.” Approximately 12-13 acres in size, the Garden was divided into sections. Originally one family held title to it all, but a son lost part of it gambling. A judicious use of wood, rock, water, and plant “life” preserve the Garden’s beauty. As we meandered about, I noted The House of Nice-Smelling Rice (sticky Shu rice), the Bonsai Gardens (potted plants as dwarfed trees), birds in cages (like the talking myna), the Bamboo Pavilion, and The 36 Pairs of Mandarin Ducks Hall with literally male and female ducks in a pond fronting the building where inside you could see richly ornamented furniture. After we exited, we passed the strikingly beautiful Buddhist pagoda, tiered perhaps 10 stories high, that earlier we thought might be in the Garden itself.
Our trip was coming to an end—there remained only the final Banquet. How difficult it was to take in and retain even a small amount of all that we’d been exposed to. And what interesting differences there’d be if each of us could relate specifically what we’d seen and felt during these nine days. Even little things. Had Jack not told me at the Banquet he liked the corn pizza, I wouldn’t have known it. He enjoyed the taste; I didn’t, didn’t even try it. Multiply that tiny experience by how many variants, and, if one could only remember, how much he/she could write. Karaoke singing concluded our last feast. Someone thought it fitting that we sing “Let It Be” to Glenn, and so a group including Fran did, and that brought tears to her eyes.
Apr. 4. Having said my goodbyes the night before, I was the first to leave in the morning. About 3:20, just as promised, a car, actually a cab, came for me. The driver raced off down the deserted street, ignoring all red lights, until suddenly he got a call on his radio to come back to the hotel. Someone else had last-minute decided to go to the airport? Nope. As we pulled up, there was Mr. Liu waiting. He opened the cab door and gave me, as he would everyone else, both a commemorative Album of photos, 46 pages, precisely 5 photos to a page, and a disk of them as well. He wanted to make sure I, We, remembered this “Redwood” Ping-Pong Diplomacy trip for a long, long time.
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