KEY POINTS:
Saturday 3pm
Fly beside the motorway at 431km/h on the high-speed train from the airport. You'll probably need to take a taxi to your hotel at the other end, so help your cabbie out by having the address details written in Mandarin - you'll save on time and cab fare, too.
Saturday 8pm
Venture into the streets of the Putuo District. Cloaked forms float out of the shadows on unlit bicycles in the torrential downpour, and groups of women are holed up in hair salons. Sitting under a hot dryer seems to be a national pastime but eating a bowl of hot, garlicky noodles with fragrant coriander is a close second. Who are we to argue?
Sunday 8am
Awake to the rumblings of trains thundering past my window. Coffee is required, so take the (fast and cheap) metro to the French Concession district and hole up in Boona cafe on Xinle Rd; it's warm, has free internet and books to browse through. Reluctantly, I drag myself into the cold and wet to walk off the coffees and browse through quirky boutiques on nearby Jin Xian Road.
Sunday 12pm
Hit the never-ending malls on Nanjing Rd, Shanghai's main shopping street, where pedestrian crossings are manned with uniformed officers blowing whistles and waving crowds across the street. Still there's no safe moment to cross a road in Shanghai; bikes buzz out of nowhere. The best advice is there's safety in numbers, so cushion yourself with a cluster of locals and take a deep breath. My bravado is dented slightly by witnessing a cyclist knocked from his bike by a bus; the bus pauses briefly while he wheels his damaged bike to the curb, straightens the handlebars, and rides away. Just another day on the roads in Shanghai.
Sunday 2pm
Hungry, I turn into Wujiang Road in search of food from its back-to-back fast food stalls and queue in the still-pouring rain for dumplings. Watching them being made by an industrious face-masked team is mesmerising and alleviates the 15-minute wait. Dough-rollers fling pale discs to the fillers, who spoon pork mix from a huge metal bowl, then pinch and turn them into little buns. I stab mine with chopsticks, attempting to steer them towards my mouth before the juices escape.
Sunday 3pm
Still hungry, I hop across the puddles in search of veggies and take a seat in a place so cold you can still see your breath inside. I order what I hope is vegetables with rice. A dark green mound beneath a shiny sauce appears. It's sweet but the leaves are reassuringly crunchy. I haven't yet paid and the woman who took my order guards the door in case I bolt. It's warmer to keep walking in the rain, so I settle up as soon as I'm done.
Sunday 4pm
I'm crossing the top of People's Square when a group of Chinese students shout, "Hello! English!" and invite me to a nearby tea festival. We're ushered into a tasting room crammed with ornate tins. Various teas are sniffed and stirred and we hear of Chinese tea traditions. The bill for tasting ends up being surprisingly high. (The following week in Auckland, a friend recounts a suspiciously similar tea-tasting experience in Shanghai which ended up costing a small fortune. It seems there are some professionals at work...)
Sunday 6pm
Meet up with Felix, Shanghai resident and former school-mate of a Kiwi friend; we go to a traditional restaurant near the famous Yuyuan Garden in the Old City and order buns in wicker baskets with a teapot of murky vinegar for dipping. We also demolish the crunchy vegetable spring rolls and slurp up a broth of minced pork in bean curd.
Sunday 9pm
The Bund - Shanghai's famous river walk - is the place to experience city views by night, including the Oriental Pearl Radio and TV Tower. I'm not normally bothered by the rain but my trainers leak and I feel as if I'm walking barefoot across a freezing bog.
Monday 7am
There's a good place nearby for dumplings, the girl on the desk tells me, and writes in Mandarin what I'm to ask for (it translates as "give me dumplings"). Already the streets are swarming with commuters as I walk past rows of food stalls. A woman's cracking eggs into a huge black pan then pressing fritters on to them. She tosses one into a plastic bag for me; it's hot and greasy and comes with a sweetish brown paste. I devour it whilst locating the dumpling place. It's a military-style operation, teeming with old and young hunched over steaming bowls. I present my hand-written request then collect a dish of dumplings from a hatch at the kitchen. Breakfast has cost me 5Y (around $1) and I'm stuffed.
Monday 11am
Time for a final cuppa at RBT (Real Brewed Tea) on the busy Huaihai Road. It promises Taiwanese-style tea and snacks and is an oasis from the frantic shopping action outside. A soothing water feature trickles away and a table in the window boasts two swings for seats. Teas come hot or cold, from kumquat to plain old green, served in dainty pots. There's lots of chatter and some serious smoking going on. I ponder the imminent journey back to the airport as I sip my brew. Shanghai has been good to me, but I won't miss this rain.
