The TV Tower of Dalian
Since arriving in Dalian, I had wanted to ascend the TV Tower. For a tourist, the problem is getting up to the top cheaply. Dalian's tower sits on a squat mount (of which there seem to be many in the city) behind labour park, and from the city centre it seems that the only simple way to get there directly is to pay the entrance fee for the park and take the gondolas to the summit. I didn't have time enough on this particular day (another late morning) to nut out a bus route from the map in Chinese I'd purchased, so I elected for this easy, if a little expensive, method.
Upon reflection, a taxi would have been cheaper, if less of a triumph. The park fee was ten yuan, I wandered past unusual plastic artworks which looked as if they'd been pulled from giant cereal boxes; a giant lantern, a huge soccer ball with statues of young boys kicking goals. The gondolas were forty; a slow ride facing the mount meant it was impossible to appreciate the view as I ascended without twisting my neck uncomfortably. I was in the lift to the top another thirty yuan later.
The windows at the top were so filthy that they were barely transparent, but the view was worth it. I was the sole visitor; I unfolded my map and filled in the gaps in my own mental picture of Dalian, worked out where the beaches and parks were. The sunset, ever my familiar travel companion, was spectacular over Bohai Bay, honeying the waves as the shadow of the tower traced out the roads beneath.
They had an Internet Café up there - email was expensive but I was keen for a coffee. Despite their conspicuous use of the easily recognisable Chinese characters for coffee, none was on offer, so I wrote for half an hour over a can of Sprite.
Back outside, it was getting dark and I noticed that the gondolas had closed. One of the attendants was still there, after a run of the standard questions about my country of origin, length of stay in China, and a commendation of my schoolkid Chinese, he broke the news to me that the only way back down was via the thrilling land sled ride constructed on the mountainside. My gondola ticket had already covered the fare, so I tucked in my jacket and squatted in the sled board, a plastic affair with a handle and wheel set that sat on a curvy metallic coaster slide. It was cold, the city was evening blued, and a silly foreigner with carrybag balanced dangerously on his lap sped down towards it on a twisting trail that seemed to poise itself before the view in celebration
Upon reflection, a taxi would have been cheaper, if less of a triumph. The park fee was ten yuan, I wandered past unusual plastic artworks which looked as if they'd been pulled from giant cereal boxes; a giant lantern, a huge soccer ball with statues of young boys kicking goals. The gondolas were forty; a slow ride facing the mount meant it was impossible to appreciate the view as I ascended without twisting my neck uncomfortably. I was in the lift to the top another thirty yuan later.
The windows at the top were so filthy that they were barely transparent, but the view was worth it. I was the sole visitor; I unfolded my map and filled in the gaps in my own mental picture of Dalian, worked out where the beaches and parks were. The sunset, ever my familiar travel companion, was spectacular over Bohai Bay, honeying the waves as the shadow of the tower traced out the roads beneath.
They had an Internet Café up there - email was expensive but I was keen for a coffee. Despite their conspicuous use of the easily recognisable Chinese characters for coffee, none was on offer, so I wrote for half an hour over a can of Sprite.
Back outside, it was getting dark and I noticed that the gondolas had closed. One of the attendants was still there, after a run of the standard questions about my country of origin, length of stay in China, and a commendation of my schoolkid Chinese, he broke the news to me that the only way back down was via the thrilling land sled ride constructed on the mountainside. My gondola ticket had already covered the fare, so I tucked in my jacket and squatted in the sled board, a plastic affair with a handle and wheel set that sat on a curvy metallic coaster slide. It was cold, the city was evening blued, and a silly foreigner with carrybag balanced dangerously on his lap sped down towards it on a twisting trail that seemed to poise itself before the view in celebration
