Writers like to believe words travel further than
we can see. I wrote this piece 30 years ago
about a city that challenged my assumptions—
about safety, community, and how we see the world.
Soon after, I applied for a visa to China.
Instead of the usual one year, I was granted ten.
It’s almost certainly unrelated.
But it does make you think about where
stories end up—and who might be listening.
For as long as I can remember I have been a writer. Sometimes I write the truth, sometimes fiction.
I’d like to tell you a story. I promise I will try my best to be truthful — except for one lie. You might find it amusing to spot that fib.
I recently visited one of our large eastern cities. As I often do, I decided to go for a walk in the evening. I strolled slowly along the river bank, a few blocks from my hotel. The day had been warm and now there was a nice coolness.
On park benches young lovers spoke softly to each other — occasional laughter floated through the air. Two elderly ladies, arm-in-arm, lamented over how difficult it was to get a good cup of coffee. An impish six-year-old dashed by — his father loped after him and easily caught him and the child squealed with delight.
A half-hour slipped by and I wandered into a park filled with bushes and trees. Foliage blotted out the street lights and traffic that had seemed to be there minutes earlier. Clouds obliterated the star-studded sky.
A man, who must have been lurking in the bushes, approached. I realized that the lovers’ laughter and the running child and the cool air had lulled me into what could be a dangerous situation. No one in the world knew where I was — except for this strange man — a total stranger, who stood only a few feet away.
He smiled and said many tourists became lost in the park. He suggested we walk back to my hotel. We discussed books (he loved James Joyce), we talked about stamps (he was collecting flowers of the world), and we touched on politics (he thought there should be less government interference).
You might think I was foolish to get lost in a strange city. The next night I did something more foolish — I returned to the same park.
Why?
Perhaps I had become overwhelmed with locks and security and fear and when I discovered a place where I sensed one could go for a walk without feeling as though a mugging were imminent, I was drawn toward it.
My second foray into the darkened park ended when I met a young college couple. She was studying physiotherapy, he was almost finished with political science. They wanted to know about my family. I told them about my grandfather who was from a small midwestern town and how in the evenings he took me for long walks in the cool evening air.
Being with grandfather was magic. I felt safe. I knew no one would harm us. The couple nodded in agreement and said that’s the way the world should be. We said good night.
In the lobby of my hotel I could hear a band playing. The band finished a wonderful rendition of “As Time Goes By.” As I sat down and ordered a drink, everyone was dancing and talking and telling jokes.
A young man named Bob, working for the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, sat down at my table.
I asked him how he enjoyed the area.
“Great. Most honest people I’ve ever met.”
“So you don’t lend them money?”
“Well,” he said as he sipped his drink, “after what happened to us with Dome Petroleum we’re a bit cautious but sure, I’d lend most businessmen in the city all the money I could.”
“I just came back from a walk in the park. I felt real safe. You think that was my imagination?”
“People never get mugged here.”
“You telling me there’s no crime?”
“There’s pickpockets, minor vandalism and a little theft, but I haven’t heard of any muggers.”
“But this is a big city.”
“I know,” he said. “I didn’t believe it at first either. But people here have a real sense of community. Family ties are incredible.”
I thought about what Bob had said as I walked to my room. There was a lost-and-found sign in the lobby. Someone had written “Some money” on it. An unusual city, I thought.
I slept with the window open, maybe in the night there were police sirens. But I didn’t hear any.
I got up early the next morning. Half the city seemed to be exercising. I was astonished at the number of health nuts doing aerobics and calisthenics and group exercises.
The thought crossed my mind that there might be some kind of link between a city you felt safe in and exercise.
As I jogged past a beautiful grove of maple trees, a lady fell into stride beside me.
“I don’t think I’ve seen more than two or three people who are overweight since I came here,” I said.
“That’s one of the things I noticed when I first came here,” she replied.
“What else did you notice?”
“No drug problems here.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m telling the truth,” she replied. “You’ll see.”
That morning I visited an elementary school. The children were bursting with energy and enthusiasm and the teacher told them their school teacher told them to take their seats — presto! Every child sat with his hands folded on his desk, waiting attentively for the lesson to begin. When the class started each child had done his homework and was eager to answer questions.
Afterwards, I asked the teacher how she managed to get such positive responses.
“I’m lucky to work for a good school.”
“It can’t be that great.”
“Oh, we have our problems,” she admitted.
“We’re short of money and equipment and our library needs books.”
One of the reasons I had gone on my trip was because I love steam locomotives so that afternoon I went to the terminal where I had heard there were some passenger trains with real steam engines.
There were. I saw a huge black monster that was tended to by a dozen proud workmen and I went for a ride on it and it was heaven. Black smoke belched from the locomotive’s glistening funnel and the steam hissed and screamed.
Well, that’s the end of my story.
I’ll bet you’re wondering where the city is. No muggings, no drug problems, no bad school children — and the most splendid steam locomotives you’ve ever seen.
When I started writing this story, I mentioned “one of our eastern cities.” That was my fib. The city actually isn’t ours and it’s a bit further east than I implied.
It is the third largest city in the world — Shanghai, China. (The photo? I took that about five years ago.)
