Lessons learned this week:

1. Don’t trust Google Maps and GPS.

2. Don’t trust the internet in general.

Formula 1 came to Shanghai this weekend for the ninth year. I’ve been planning to go for the past four. This year I finally got around to booking tickets with a group of coworkers.

Jump forward several weeks to last Saturday. I and two other guys from work have gone up early to see the practice, support races and qualifying. The weather was beautiful and the prospect of a day in the sunshine with a few beers was well looked forward to by all.

Prior to race weekend we had confirmed online what we had all been told before by different people – that on race weekends the Shanghai Circuit subway station was closed. It was believed that we had to get off one stop early and walk. So we did.

One of my coworkers had Google GPS on his smartphone showing the route. 4.6km: a fair trek, but doable. We exited the station – Jiading Xincheng – and proceeded to follow the route marked out. Now, there is not a lot happening in this particular area of Shanghai. There are apartments being constructed, but for the most part it’s just empty roads and agricultural land. We headed off along one of these deserted stretches of tarmac, attracting the attention of several migrant builders and rice farmers. Eventually the track turned to mud – strewn with discarded items – and we hit a dead end. The road we were meant to turn onto WAS there, only it was 15 meters above our heads. Google Maps had failed to identify that it was an elevated highway. Not to worry, we thought, we can just follow the overgrown wasteland running beneath it.

No good. Pretty soon we hit a canal that wasn’t on the map.

Had we not been so stubborn we would have simply retraced our steps back to the subway stop. After all, it was a mere 20-minute walk back. But no, we decided to follow the elevated road in the other direction. We passed a dozen or so homeless guys living in wooden shacks, with chickens, geese and rabid dogs running around and oily water everywhere, heading in the direction of traffic sounds ahead. We came across a fence. After finding a way to edge around it – avoiding a couple of open drains hidden dangerously in the undergrowth – we emerged onto the main highway out of the city. Four lanes in either direction. Busy. Dangerous.

We walked along it. For one hour.

Every once in a while we saw an overpass traversing the highway up ahead. On at least one occasion the overpass was incomplete. We had hoped to be find a turning off of the highway. For several miles we slugged along the hard shoulder, seeking a gap in the fence and dense foliage that we could exploit. There were none, except those where no fence was needed as the ground was pure marsh.

Cars coming by honked their horns. A helicopter flew low overhead. Lorries rattled on by with bemused passengers peering from the windows. And we continued on.

Eventually we hit a turn and followed it, believing it to be our salvation. It took us onto another stretch of anonymous, inescapable highway. We could see the circuit on our left in the distance but we never seemed to get any closer. But for ten metres of canal we could have hiked across to it.

We kept each other’s spirits up with jokes, but we all started to consider the real possibility that we might never find a way off this highway. We debated flagging down a passing vehicle and hitching a lift back the way we came, but we obstinately marched on, telling ourselves that there was a turn off ahead.

After one and a half hours of tramping against the traffic we spied a small track leading down the embankment to a hole in the fence. It’s worth a try, we thought, and slid down the slope. Squeezing through the broken wiring, we were overcome with a sense of relief: relief to be off the motorway, relief to be within earshot of the circuit. We could hear the F1 cars on their practice laps and their sound became a beacon. Just head towards the engines, we told ourselves, not knowing how much further we still had to go.

Within twenty minutes we were at the entrance gate, having taken two hours to get there. As we passed through security my coworker had his beers confiscated.

Oh, and a notice in the guidebook we picked up told us the Shanghai Circuit subway station was “open as usual this race weekend”.

I’m doing some exercise in front of the TV when I hear a rare knock on the door. Nobody ever visits me except to collect overdue bills. I answer. It’s the neighbour from upstairs - the very same neighbour who wakes me up everyday dragging furniture across the wooden floors of his apartment, or by marching up and down in shoes, or by allowing his evil little mutt of a dog to bark endlessly. I’ve always wanted to confront him or his wife about it.

          “Hi, I live upstairs. One of our bedsheets has fallen down into your yard.”

I live on the ground floor. My yard is the building’s dustbin, littered with cigarette butts and other assorted junk. Now it appears they have dropped something they want back.

          “Could you go and check if it is there for me?” he asks.

I should say something. ‘This is the man who has cost you hours of sleep’, I remind myself.

          “Sure. One second.”

Lame.

I go and look but I can’t find it. He apologises for disturbing me - this time - and leaves. I return to my exercise.

Another knock.

          “Hi,  I can see it on the roof of your laundry room.”

I don’t want to look again so I invite him in to check for himself, being infinitely more polite than I ought to be and that he has ever been to me. He finds it and walks back through my living room with the sheet draped over a pole.

I never said anything. This morning his dog woke me up again.

Suzhou. It’s another hour before I can board my train back to Shanghai but I’m wringing wet and don’t fancy wading around town until then, so I’ve come early to the station.

There’s a gaggle of beggars doing the rounds, working the aisles in waves. Organized. Coordinated.  Directed. They’re those ones that claim to be deaf and carry immaculately laminated cards bilingually explaining their affliction. She gets the brush off from everyone, eventually shuffling her way over to me. Now, I don’t mind beggars all that much but I do hate when they single out the foreigner for extra attention. This one’s no different. I can see her calculating the expense of my camera in her head.

She points at her ears and commences her well-rehearsed routine, attempting to convince me of her plight. I’m unmoved. She continues for three long minutes but I put my head down and ignore her. Eventually giving up, she moves on to irritate someone else.

Five minutes later. She’s back. Apparently she didn’t get the message.

          “I should carry a laminated card explaining I don’t give a shit”, I think to myself.

I wave her away, accidentally clipping her hand as I do so. This angers her, although when a mute loses their temper it’s more pantomime than threat. Her hilariously exaggerated facial expressions and flailing arm movements attract a sizeable crowd. They laugh uproariously. The woman turns to scowl at them.

Hey … wait a minute … she … she heard them!

Busted. Back to fraud school for you.

We’re sitting in the sun just off West Nanjing Road enjoying a long Friday lunch (actually lunch was eaten some time ago but we’re in no hurry to get back to the office). It’s a foreigner friendly place and there are plenty of ex-pat faces.

A shoeshine woman comes by, swinging her wooden box of creams and brushes. She circles our table, appealing for customers. She’s civil enough, just a woman trying to make a living, but neither of us has shoes in need of a polish (casual Friday) and we politely decline. She moves along. We chat some more.

10 minutes later. She comes back. Perhaps she’s more persistent that we first realized. She starts going around our group again. I interrupt her.

                “You already asked us. We already said no.”

She steps back and appraises our faces.

                “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were different ones.”

She packs up her creams and ducks away.

                “White faces all look the same to me” she adds.

I’m heading to the gas company’s ‘local’ office to pay four bills late (normal). It’s a good 30 minute walk. The streets are fairly quiet out here, where the map is barely filled in. Not many people venture so far west unless they are either A: local or B: a foreigner too lazy to pay bills punctually.

There are signs of commerce but only of the homegrown variety. A tobacco stand. A glass cutting workshop (in which the family also live). A fruit and vegetable seller. If there was a line here would be the end of it. The gas company office is down an anonymous alley, indicated only by graffiti scrawled in green on a crumbling wall. I’ve made this trip once before and I remember where to go.

As I stroll the final hundred yards I’m spotted by a small boy crouching on the pavement outside his parents’ shop. The mother is squatting too, across the threshold like a sentry, chewing on seeds which she spits out on the step. The steps of her own business. There’s quite a pile around her, like spent bullets. She’s obviously been defending the position for quite a while.

The boy, perhaps four years old, leaps from his squat energetically. He runs towards me, covering about 20 yards in a matter of seconds. He stops a stride in front of me, points up and turns to his mother.

                “Hey, mum. Is that a foreigner?” he calls back to her.

 She nods and spits out another seed.

                “I was right!” he says proudly, satisfied with his skills of detection.

I’ve just been to the inconvenience store around the corner to pay a bill on time (a rarity) and am a minute in to the ten-minute homeward journey. Alongside the pavement runs a bike lane. Scooters buzz by with no lights on. Suddenly I hear a skid, followed by a crash and a furious female scream. I turn to see an upturned cardboard box on the road, 20 yards behind the moped it just fell from. Three dozen beer cans (unopened) are escaping in all directions down the road. A middle-aged woman darts about trying to retrieve them before anyone else does. Approaching bikes swerve to avoid her and the tumbling obstacles. Ever the Good Samaritan I decide to help. I gather up four cans, stack them on end between my palms and start back to hand them over. Almost immediately the woman sees me, jumps to a racist conclusion and hollers into the evening.

               “Thief! Stop him, that foreigner is stealing my beers!”

I explain that I am in fact coming to the rescue.

                “Oh.”

She points nonchalantly towards the cardboard box.

                “Put them there.”

I put them there. She recovers them all. No casualties. She gets on the moped and rides off. No thanks. No apology.