For example, the other day we were biking along a downtown street. For the national holiday, hundreds of pots of flowers have been arranged along virtually every running foot of roadway. Flowers are hung from specially built fences, light poles are wrapped about 12 feet high with something like flower topiary. It makes bicycling even more pleasant than usual.

I was drifting along enjoying the view when in the back of my mind I heard the tinny, synthetic melody of an ice cream truck. I was too entranced by bicycling to realize that I had never before seen an ice cream truck in China or even seen that many people eating ice cream. So I should not have come as a surprise when the "ice cream truck" got closer and it turned out to be a huge water tanker, outfitted with nozzles and spraying both the roadway (street cleaning) and the shoulder (flower watering.) The music was intended to warn you that you might be getting soaked. I escaped dry; some of the other bicyclists were not so lucky.

In Lijiang something similar happened when I heard loud, patriotic sounding music coming from a nearby street. I thought it might be a passing parade, but in fact it was a garbage truck. Maybe it is considered patriotic to throw out your trash.

Then there is the odd sight of the armies of plump middle-aged woman, dispatched to clean virtually every public surface in the country. Sidewalks and gutters are continually swept but we have even seen them sweeping the high-speed toll roads (as our 40 passenger express bus zoomed by) and washing the guard rails with big buckets of soapy water. Clustered together in dusty gray uniforms, their sharp little motions and random wanderings makes them look like a flock of hens. It is only the hunter-bright orange vests and matching caps that give them some municipal dignity.

Because Deb is still the one who does all of the talking and most of the listening, she is often much busier than I. This leaves me free to space out and observe the casual interactions that continually occur between people. I sometimes feel like a preschooler who knows enough to interpret the world, (or thinks he does) but not enough to independently participate in it. While she negotiates in the market, or makes queries about bus schedules, I watch the world go by.

We were downtown making the final arrangements our vacation in Lijiang. Or more specifically, Deb was buying bus tickets; I was watching the streetscape. A cleaning women was going about her duties, sweeping the sidewalk with a broom made from a bundle of twigs. The sidewalk was already pretty clean so she took the opportunity to rest, leaning against the side of the building next to where I was standing. She had that relaxed, absent-minded air of someone on a cigarette break.

There were crowds of people walking down the sidewalk, passing us and paying us no mind. Grandparents with a grandchild; clusters of school children in uniforms; peasants carrying huge baskets of produce; toothless old women, stooped from years of labor; professional men and women in business dress; all of them flowing by like ripples in a stream.

From within this tranquil flow, a well-dressed young woman, walking and talking with a female friend, began the unmistakable sound of deep, hearty throat clearing. Outside of China, I associate this practice with ballplayers or longshoremen, or with the tuberculosis ward. But here hardly a day goes by without hearing and usually seeing someone hurl a lunger onto the sidewalk. Sometimes, if the person is polite, or if they are in a restaurant, they will stop to smear the mucus under the sole of their shoe, grinding it as you would a cigarette butt. But this woman was walking with determination and drive; she wasn't about to stop

I hardly reacted to this commonplace custom - the windup, the pitch - but the cleaning woman's ears were up like a cat's. Her expression changed from distractedly content to intently alert. Practically before the snot hit the ground she had darted out into the crowd. She grabbed the startled offender by the arm and began to lecture. I can only speculate as to her exact words, but the gist of it was clear. She pointed to the still warm spot of slime and then to a notice on the wall of a nearby building. It looked like a list of public offenses and fines. The numbers ranged from 50 to 200 yuan. I assumed one of these was the penalty for spitting.

The accused woman was incredulous. Who is this old lady in her ridiculous florescent vest, telling her what she can and can't do? What makes her think it's her business? She was upset. People were busily streaming by her right and left; this woman had places to go, *important* things to do, she didn't need some self-appointed defender of public sanitation slapping her with a 50 yuan fine!

She had paused for all of about 10 seconds. The old woman's hand was still on her forearm. The look on her face was changing from confusion to fury. From deep within her, deeper than the germs she'd spewed out of her gut, an anger was rising. She snapped her arm up from her side, flinging off the grasp of the old woman, and shouted out what, for the life of me, sounded like "FU*K OFF!"

It was Chinese, so it couldn't have been that. But I'll bet you that's what she meant. It was like watching a movie with subtitles: You're hearing words and getting meanings so you assume that it's what you hear that's responsible for your understanding, not what you see. Whatever it was, I got the message, and so did the cleaning woman, who shuffled back to her post, dejected.

I think there is a growing tension here between Old China, and New China. New China is represented by the yuppies with their pagers and cell phones, marching along with crisp precision and purpose. Old China is still here in the decades older men and woman, wearing tattered Mao caps and hand-knit vests, hobbled by a lifetime of deprivation and hard labor. It's clear who's going to win, if they haven't already. And nobody is going to miss the shortages and the hunger. But I don't see the market economy supporting these old men and ladies, and I don't know who, if anyone, is. They appear as forgotten as the old buildings being bulldozed for the sake of the next new shopping mall.

Mao must be spinning in his grave.