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[转载]美国女记者眼中"半真半假"的北京胡同  

2010-11-21 00:51:00|  分类: 默认分类 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

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博主的观点有新意。 问好!

—— 最后那个clothing shop应该是 皇家裁缝纪念馆,或者,以纪念皇家裁缝名义开的服装店。ur street is full of stories and lies. The stories come in scraps to the street, one of Beijing’s famous but vanishing old alleyways known as hutongs. The alley’s name, Dajinsi, derives from the golden threads used by the imperial tailors when the street was home to the seamstresses and cloth-dyers of the emperor. Or so the story goes. The lies, on the other hand, wash up on our doorstep, where imaginative guides stand before sweating bands of tourists to point out the wooden beams and squat stone statues, spinning tales about the previous dwellers: From this we see it was somebody important in the military! This characteristic tells us that here lived a respected academic! It’s all nonsense, of course. It’s a brand-new house disguised as an old one. The owner leveled the old properties, then layered some traditional touches into the reconstruction: the sloping gray-tile roof, the flowering fruit tree, the courtyard joining one part of the house to the other. But it’s also got skylights, a finished basement and shiny appliances. When we first moved in, you could smell the newness of the poured concrete and wooden beams. Still, I don’t interrupt or contradict the guides. I enjoy the stories as much as anybody. I’ll lurk on the other side of the wall and listen until the tourists shuffle down a few doors, where one of our neighbors seems to be doing a brisk business in show
ute to those long-dead imperial tailors. We’ll soon have to find another place to live. The tourists will love the new store. © Copyright (c) Los Angeles Times
原文地址:原文地址:美国女记者眼中"半真半假"的北京胡同作者:翟华美国《洛杉矶时报》9月5日发表记者Megan K. Stack女士发自北京的报道,题目是A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane(北京半真半假的老胡同游)。文章摘要如下(译文来自参考网,英语原文附后):   我们这条街充满了故事与谎言。关于这条街的故事大都是零星散乱的。这条胡同叫大金丝,源于皇家裁缝所使用的金线。过去,这条街上住的都是御用女裁缝和染匠。故事大概就是这样的。   可是,你站在院门口,会听到各种编造不一的谎言。那些超级富有想像力的导游站在汗流浃背的游客们面前,指着木制横梁和大门两边的抱鼓石,开始胡编乱造起来:从这里我们可以看到,这里住的肯定是一位军中要人!这些字则告诉我们,这里还住过非常受人尊敬的学者!   这当然是在胡说八道。其实这是一座隐蔽在老房子中间的新房子。房主拆掉了老房子,翻建成了新房子,只是在重建的过程中加入了一些四合院的传统元素:灰瓦斜屋顶,开满了花的果树。   但是,这座房子还有天窗、地下室和全新的电器。我们刚搬进来时,甚至还能闻到水泥和木头的味道。   可是,我没有打断那些导游,或者跟他们对质。我像其他人一样享受着这些故事。我们躲在墙的另一边听着,直到游客们远去。不过,我觉得如果游客们睁大眼睛就会知道是怎么回事,因为在来我们院门口的路上,他们得绕过一堆堆的新木头、新砖和新瓦片。   我们的邻居纷纷开始翻盖房子。我和丈夫每天都在噪音声中醒来,电锯声、推土机的轰鸣声,不绝于耳。   然而,在拆掉旧房盖新房的过程中也会出现一些超现实的、令人膛目的美。我们转过一个弯,看到一个厨房水盆立在一片废墟的中央;房子的大部分都拆掉了,残垣断壁上,红色的春联依然可见……从某种意义上讲,我们是幸运的。在湖的另一边,钟鼓搂附近的一片地区即将被拆掉,据说是要建个时间文化长廊。当然,古建筑保护主义者对此非常不满,但老百姓似乎不太关心。   带着相机,坐在人乡三轮车上在胡同里转悠的人大都是来自中国其他地方的游客。我猜想,这些游客也只是想看看老北京人的生活方式,这并非他们所渴望的生活方式。   《洛杉矶时报》驻京办事处的司机听说我从外交公寓搬到胡同里后,直摇头,一副难以置信的样子。他就是在一个拥挤的大杂院里长大的,一有能力就赶快搬离了那里。他说,我喜欢公寓,公寓生活更方便。   一想到那些消失的胡同,人就很容易变得忧郁。但是,我告诉自己:这就是中国的面孔。不是浪漫而理想化的,而是经济增长促使社会演变的复杂现实。   在周日一个温和的午后,我们坐在院子里的树荫下。少有的明净天空中,风筝飞得很高很高。邻居在放飞他们训练有素的鸽子,在落日的余晖中,鸽子一圈一圈地飞翱着。小鸟低低地飞过我们的房顶,腹部闪烁着落日的金色。   我尽情地享受着这每一分每一秒,因为我知道,这一切正在消失。像这个繁荣的国家里的大多数人一样,我们的房东正在寻求更好的投资。我们听说,她把我们现在住的这个地方卖给了一名男子,那个人想在这里开一间裁缝店。我们不久之后就得搬到另一个地方了。 A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane By Megan K. Stack BEIJING - O美国女记者眼中"半真半假"的北京胡同作者:ute to those long-dead imperial tailors. We’ll soon have to find another place to live. The tourists will love the new store. © Copyright (c) Los Angeles Times翟华

ur street is full of stories and lies. The stories come in scraps to the street, one of Beijing’s famous but vanishing old alleyways known as hutongs. The alley’s name, Dajinsi, derives from the golden threads used by the imperial tailors when the street was home to the seamstresses and cloth-dyers of the emperor. Or so the story goes. The lies, on the other hand, wash up on our doorstep, where imaginative guides stand before sweating bands of tourists to point out the wooden beams and squat stone statues, spinning tales about the previous dwellers: From this we see it was somebody important in the military! This characteristic tells us that here lived a respected academic! It’s all nonsense, of course. It’s a brand-new house disguised as an old one. The owner leveled the old properties, then layered some traditional touches into the reconstruction: the sloping gray-tile roof, the flowering fruit tree, the courtyard joining one part of the house to the other. But it’s also got skylights, a finished basement and shiny appliances. When we first moved in, you could smell the newness of the poured concrete and wooden beams. Still, I don’t interrupt or contradict the guides. I enjoy the stories as much as anybody. I’ll lurk on the other side of the wall and listen until the tourists shuffle down a few doors, where one of our neighbors seems to be doing a brisk business in show美国《洛杉矶时报》9月5日发表记者Megan K. Stack女士发自北京的报道,题目是A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane(北京半真半假的老胡同游)。文章摘要如下(译文来自参考网,英语原文附后):

 

urists, the hutongs occupy the same place as, say, a Colonial Williamsburg, an interesting and abstract glimpse into the way people used to live, but not a desirable everyday lifestyle. The driver in the Los Angeles Times bureau here shook his head in disbelief when he heard I’d moved into a hutong neighborhood instead of the diplomatic compound. He grew up in the cramped quarters of a shared courtyard dwelling, and escaped as soon as possible. I like apartments, he said. They have modern conveniences. It’s easy to get melancholy about the disappearance of the hutongs. But I tell myself that this is the face of China. Not the romantic, idealized version, but the more complicated reality of a country whose explosive economic growth is driving what often feels like warp-speed social evolution. On a balmy Sunday afternoon, we sit under the trees of our courtyard. Kites float in an uncharacteristically clear sky, and the neighbors have released their bands of trained pigeons to circle in the fading golden light. The birds swoop low over our house, stirring the air with their wings, and the colors of sunset glimmer on their bellies. I savor these minutes, because I know they are fleeting. Like most people in this booming country, the owner of our house is looking for an even better investment. We hear she’s selling the place to a man who wants to create a clothing shop in trib[转载]美国女记者眼中半真半假的北京胡同 - 陈明远 - 陈明远的博客
ur street is full of stories and lies. The stories come in scraps to the street, one of Beijing’s famous but vanishing old alleyways known as hutongs. The alley’s name, Dajinsi, derives from the golden threads used by the imperial tailors when the street was home to the seamstresses and cloth-dyers of the emperor. Or so the story goes. The lies, on the other hand, wash up on our doorstep, where imaginative guides stand before sweating bands of tourists to point out the wooden beams and squat stone statues, spinning tales about the previous dwellers: From this we see it was somebody important in the military! This characteristic tells us that here lived a respected academic! It’s all nonsense, of course. It’s a brand-new house disguised as an old one. The owner leveled the old properties, then layered some traditional touches into the reconstruction: the sloping gray-tile roof, the flowering fruit tree, the courtyard joining one part of the house to the other. But it’s also got skylights, a finished basement and shiny appliances. When we first moved in, you could smell the newness of the poured concrete and wooden beams. Still, I don’t interrupt or contradict the guides. I enjoy the stories as much as anybody. I’ll lurk on the other side of the wall and listen until the tourists shuffle down a few doors, where one of our neighbors seems to be doing a brisk business in show

  我们这条街充满了故事与谎言。关于这条街的故事大都是零星散乱的。这条胡同叫大金丝,源于皇家裁缝所使用的金线。过去,这条街上住的都是御用女裁缝和染匠。故事大概就是这样的。

ur street is full of stories and lies. The stories come in scraps to the street, one of Beijing’s famous but vanishing old alleyways known as hutongs. The alley’s name, Dajinsi, derives from the golden threads used by the imperial tailors when the street was home to the seamstresses and cloth-dyers of the emperor. Or so the story goes. The lies, on the other hand, wash up on our doorstep, where imaginative guides stand before sweating bands of tourists to point out the wooden beams and squat stone statues, spinning tales about the previous dwellers: From this we see it was somebody important in the military! This characteristic tells us that here lived a respected academic! It’s all nonsense, of course. It’s a brand-new house disguised as an old one. The owner leveled the old properties, then layered some traditional touches into the reconstruction: the sloping gray-tile roof, the flowering fruit tree, the courtyard joining one part of the house to the other. But it’s also got skylights, a finished basement and shiny appliances. When we first moved in, you could smell the newness of the poured concrete and wooden beams. Still, I don’t interrupt or contradict the guides. I enjoy the stories as much as anybody. I’ll lurk on the other side of the wall and listen until the tourists shuffle down a few doors, where one of our neighbors seems to be doing a brisk business in show


  可是,你站在院门口,会听到各种编造不一的谎言。那些超级富有想像力的导游站在汗流浃背的游客们面前,指着木制横梁和大门两边的抱鼓石,开始胡编乱造起来:从这里我们可以看到,这里住的肯定是一位军中要人!这些字则告诉我们,这里还住过非常受人尊敬的学者!

ing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people. Besides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles. All around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock. There’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble. In a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City. Preservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care. Most of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces. I imagine that, to these to


  这当然是在胡说八道。其实这是一座隐蔽在老房子中间的新房子。房主拆掉了老房子,翻建成了新房子,只是在重建的过程中加入了一些四合院的传统元素:灰瓦斜屋顶,开满了花的果树。

原文地址:美国女记者眼中"半真半假"的北京胡同作者:翟华美国《洛杉矶时报》9月5日发表记者Megan K. Stack女士发自北京的报道,题目是A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane(北京半真半假的老胡同游)。文章摘要如下(译文来自参考网,英语原文附后):   我们这条街充满了故事与谎言。关于这条街的故事大都是零星散乱的。这条胡同叫大金丝,源于皇家裁缝所使用的金线。过去,这条街上住的都是御用女裁缝和染匠。故事大概就是这样的。   可是,你站在院门口,会听到各种编造不一的谎言。那些超级富有想像力的导游站在汗流浃背的游客们面前,指着木制横梁和大门两边的抱鼓石,开始胡编乱造起来:从这里我们可以看到,这里住的肯定是一位军中要人!这些字则告诉我们,这里还住过非常受人尊敬的学者!   这当然是在胡说八道。其实这是一座隐蔽在老房子中间的新房子。房主拆掉了老房子,翻建成了新房子,只是在重建的过程中加入了一些四合院的传统元素:灰瓦斜屋顶,开满了花的果树。   但是,这座房子还有天窗、地下室和全新的电器。我们刚搬进来时,甚至还能闻到水泥和木头的味道。   可是,我没有打断那些导游,或者跟他们对质。我像其他人一样享受着这些故事。我们躲在墙的另一边听着,直到游客们远去。不过,我觉得如果游客们睁大眼睛就会知道是怎么回事,因为在来我们院门口的路上,他们得绕过一堆堆的新木头、新砖和新瓦片。   我们的邻居纷纷开始翻盖房子。我和丈夫每天都在噪音声中醒来,电锯声、推土机的轰鸣声,不绝于耳。   然而,在拆掉旧房盖新房的过程中也会出现一些超现实的、令人膛目的美。我们转过一个弯,看到一个厨房水盆立在一片废墟的中央;房子的大部分都拆掉了,残垣断壁上,红色的春联依然可见……从某种意义上讲,我们是幸运的。在湖的另一边,钟鼓搂附近的一片地区即将被拆掉,据说是要建个时间文化长廊。当然,古建筑保护主义者对此非常不满,但老百姓似乎不太关心。   带着相机,坐在人乡三轮车上在胡同里转悠的人大都是来自中国其他地方的游客。我猜想,这些游客也只是想看看老北京人的生活方式,这并非他们所渴望的生活方式。   《洛杉矶时报》驻京办事处的司机听说我从外交公寓搬到胡同里后,直摇头,一副难以置信的样子。他就是在一个拥挤的大杂院里长大的,一有能力就赶快搬离了那里。他说,我喜欢公寓,公寓生活更方便。   一想到那些消失的胡同,人就很容易变得忧郁。但是,我告诉自己:这就是中国的面孔。不是浪漫而理想化的,而是经济增长促使社会演变的复杂现实。   在周日一个温和的午后,我们坐在院子里的树荫下。少有的明净天空中,风筝飞得很高很高。邻居在放飞他们训练有素的鸽子,在落日的余晖中,鸽子一圈一圈地飞翱着。小鸟低低地飞过我们的房顶,腹部闪烁着落日的金色。   我尽情地享受着这每一分每一秒,因为我知道,这一切正在消失。像这个繁荣的国家里的大多数人一样,我们的房东正在寻求更好的投资。我们听说,她把我们现在住的这个地方卖给了一名男子,那个人想在这里开一间裁缝店。我们不久之后就得搬到另一个地方了。 A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane By Megan K. Stack BEIJING - O

 

  但是,这座房子还有天窗、地下室和全新的电器。我们刚搬进来时,甚至还能闻到水泥和木头的味道。

原文地址:美国女记者眼中"半真半假"的北京胡同作者:翟华美国《洛杉矶时报》9月5日发表记者Megan K. Stack女士发自北京的报道,题目是A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane(北京半真半假的老胡同游)。文章摘要如下(译文来自参考网,英语原文附后):   我们这条街充满了故事与谎言。关于这条街的故事大都是零星散乱的。这条胡同叫大金丝,源于皇家裁缝所使用的金线。过去,这条街上住的都是御用女裁缝和染匠。故事大概就是这样的。   可是,你站在院门口,会听到各种编造不一的谎言。那些超级富有想像力的导游站在汗流浃背的游客们面前,指着木制横梁和大门两边的抱鼓石,开始胡编乱造起来:从这里我们可以看到,这里住的肯定是一位军中要人!这些字则告诉我们,这里还住过非常受人尊敬的学者!   这当然是在胡说八道。其实这是一座隐蔽在老房子中间的新房子。房主拆掉了老房子,翻建成了新房子,只是在重建的过程中加入了一些四合院的传统元素:灰瓦斜屋顶,开满了花的果树。   但是,这座房子还有天窗、地下室和全新的电器。我们刚搬进来时,甚至还能闻到水泥和木头的味道。   可是,我没有打断那些导游,或者跟他们对质。我像其他人一样享受着这些故事。我们躲在墙的另一边听着,直到游客们远去。不过,我觉得如果游客们睁大眼睛就会知道是怎么回事,因为在来我们院门口的路上,他们得绕过一堆堆的新木头、新砖和新瓦片。   我们的邻居纷纷开始翻盖房子。我和丈夫每天都在噪音声中醒来,电锯声、推土机的轰鸣声,不绝于耳。   然而,在拆掉旧房盖新房的过程中也会出现一些超现实的、令人膛目的美。我们转过一个弯,看到一个厨房水盆立在一片废墟的中央;房子的大部分都拆掉了,残垣断壁上,红色的春联依然可见……从某种意义上讲,我们是幸运的。在湖的另一边,钟鼓搂附近的一片地区即将被拆掉,据说是要建个时间文化长廊。当然,古建筑保护主义者对此非常不满,但老百姓似乎不太关心。   带着相机,坐在人乡三轮车上在胡同里转悠的人大都是来自中国其他地方的游客。我猜想,这些游客也只是想看看老北京人的生活方式,这并非他们所渴望的生活方式。   《洛杉矶时报》驻京办事处的司机听说我从外交公寓搬到胡同里后,直摇头,一副难以置信的样子。他就是在一个拥挤的大杂院里长大的,一有能力就赶快搬离了那里。他说,我喜欢公寓,公寓生活更方便。   一想到那些消失的胡同,人就很容易变得忧郁。但是,我告诉自己:这就是中国的面孔。不是浪漫而理想化的,而是经济增长促使社会演变的复杂现实。   在周日一个温和的午后,我们坐在院子里的树荫下。少有的明净天空中,风筝飞得很高很高。邻居在放飞他们训练有素的鸽子,在落日的余晖中,鸽子一圈一圈地飞翱着。小鸟低低地飞过我们的房顶,腹部闪烁着落日的金色。   我尽情地享受着这每一分每一秒,因为我知道,这一切正在消失。像这个繁荣的国家里的大多数人一样,我们的房东正在寻求更好的投资。我们听说,她把我们现在住的这个地方卖给了一名男子,那个人想在这里开一间裁缝店。我们不久之后就得搬到另一个地方了。 A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane By Megan K. Stack BEIJING - O


  可是,我没有打断那些导游,或者跟他们对质。我像其他人一样享受着这些故事。我们躲在墙的另一边听着,直到游客们远去。urists, the hutongs occupy the same place as, say, a Colonial Williamsburg, an interesting and abstract glimpse into the way people used to live, but not a desirable everyday lifestyle. The driver in the Los Angeles Times bureau here shook his head in disbelief when he heard I’d moved into a hutong neighborhood instead of the diplomatic compound. He grew up in the cramped quarters of a shared courtyard dwelling, and escaped as soon as possible. I like apartments, he said. They have modern conveniences. It’s easy to get melancholy about the disappearance of the hutongs. But I tell myself that this is the face of China. Not the romantic, idealized version, but the more complicated reality of a country whose explosive economic growth is driving what often feels like warp-speed social evolution. On a balmy Sunday afternoon, we sit under the trees of our courtyard. Kites float in an uncharacteristically clear sky, and the neighbors have released their bands of trained pigeons to circle in the fading golden light. The birds swoop low over our house, stirring the air with their wings, and the colors of sunset glimmer on their bellies. I savor these minutes, because I know they are fleeting. Like most people in this booming country, the owner of our house is looking for an even better investment. We hear she’s selling the place to a man who wants to create a clothing shop in trib不过,我觉得如果游客们睁大眼睛就会知道是怎么回事,因为在来我们院门口的路上,他们得绕过一堆堆的新木头、新砖和新瓦片。


ur street is full of stories and lies. The stories come in scraps to the street, one of Beijing’s famous but vanishing old alleyways known as hutongs. The alley’s name, Dajinsi, derives from the golden threads used by the imperial tailors when the street was home to the seamstresses and cloth-dyers of the emperor. Or so the story goes. The lies, on the other hand, wash up on our doorstep, where imaginative guides stand before sweating bands of tourists to point out the wooden beams and squat stone statues, spinning tales about the previous dwellers: From this we see it was somebody important in the military! This characteristic tells us that here lived a respected academic! It’s all nonsense, of course. It’s a brand-new house disguised as an old one. The owner leveled the old properties, then layered some traditional touches into the reconstruction: the sloping gray-tile roof, the flowering fruit tree, the courtyard joining one part of the house to the other. But it’s also got skylights, a finished basement and shiny appliances. When we first moved in, you could smell the newness of the poured concrete and wooden beams. Still, I don’t interrupt or contradict the guides. I enjoy the stories as much as anybody. I’ll lurk on the other side of the wall and listen until the tourists shuffle down a few doors, where one of our neighbors seems to be doing a brisk business in show  我们的邻居纷纷开始翻盖房子。我和丈夫每天都在噪音声中醒来,电锯声、推土机的轰鸣声,不绝于耳。


原文地址:美国女记者眼中"半真半假"的北京胡同作者:翟华美国《洛杉矶时报》9月5日发表记者Megan K. Stack女士发自北京的报道,题目是A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane(北京半真半假的老胡同游)。文章摘要如下(译文来自参考网,英语原文附后):   我们这条街充满了故事与谎言。关于这条街的故事大都是零星散乱的。这条胡同叫大金丝,源于皇家裁缝所使用的金线。过去,这条街上住的都是御用女裁缝和染匠。故事大概就是这样的。   可是,你站在院门口,会听到各种编造不一的谎言。那些超级富有想像力的导游站在汗流浃背的游客们面前,指着木制横梁和大门两边的抱鼓石,开始胡编乱造起来:从这里我们可以看到,这里住的肯定是一位军中要人!这些字则告诉我们,这里还住过非常受人尊敬的学者!   这当然是在胡说八道。其实这是一座隐蔽在老房子中间的新房子。房主拆掉了老房子,翻建成了新房子,只是在重建的过程中加入了一些四合院的传统元素:灰瓦斜屋顶,开满了花的果树。   但是,这座房子还有天窗、地下室和全新的电器。我们刚搬进来时,甚至还能闻到水泥和木头的味道。   可是,我没有打断那些导游,或者跟他们对质。我像其他人一样享受着这些故事。我们躲在墙的另一边听着,直到游客们远去。不过,我觉得如果游客们睁大眼睛就会知道是怎么回事,因为在来我们院门口的路上,他们得绕过一堆堆的新木头、新砖和新瓦片。   我们的邻居纷纷开始翻盖房子。我和丈夫每天都在噪音声中醒来,电锯声、推土机的轰鸣声,不绝于耳。   然而,在拆掉旧房盖新房的过程中也会出现一些超现实的、令人膛目的美。我们转过一个弯,看到一个厨房水盆立在一片废墟的中央;房子的大部分都拆掉了,残垣断壁上,红色的春联依然可见……从某种意义上讲,我们是幸运的。在湖的另一边,钟鼓搂附近的一片地区即将被拆掉,据说是要建个时间文化长廊。当然,古建筑保护主义者对此非常不满,但老百姓似乎不太关心。   带着相机,坐在人乡三轮车上在胡同里转悠的人大都是来自中国其他地方的游客。我猜想,这些游客也只是想看看老北京人的生活方式,这并非他们所渴望的生活方式。   《洛杉矶时报》驻京办事处的司机听说我从外交公寓搬到胡同里后,直摇头,一副难以置信的样子。他就是在一个拥挤的大杂院里长大的,一有能力就赶快搬离了那里。他说,我喜欢公寓,公寓生活更方便。   一想到那些消失的胡同,人就很容易变得忧郁。但是,我告诉自己:这就是中国的面孔。不是浪漫而理想化的,而是经济增长促使社会演变的复杂现实。   在周日一个温和的午后,我们坐在院子里的树荫下。少有的明净天空中,风筝飞得很高很高。邻居在放飞他们训练有素的鸽子,在落日的余晖中,鸽子一圈一圈地飞翱着。小鸟低低地飞过我们的房顶,腹部闪烁着落日的金色。   我尽情地享受着这每一分每一秒,因为我知道,这一切正在消失。像这个繁荣的国家里的大多数人一样,我们的房东正在寻求更好的投资。我们听说,她把我们现在住的这个地方卖给了一名男子,那个人想在这里开一间裁缝店。我们不久之后就得搬到另一个地方了。 A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane By Megan K. Stack BEIJING - O  然而,在拆掉旧房盖新房的过程中也会出现一些超现实的、令人膛目的美。我们转过一个弯,看到一个厨房水盆立在一片废墟的中央;房子的大部分都拆掉了,残垣断壁上,红色的春联依然可见……从某种意义上讲,我们是幸运的。在湖的另一边,钟鼓搂附近的一片地区即将被拆掉,据说是要建个时间文化长廊。当然,古建筑保护主义者对此非常不满,但老百姓似乎不太关心。


ing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people. Besides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles. All around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock. There’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble. In a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City. Preservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care. Most of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces. I imagine that, to these to  带着相机,坐在人乡三轮车上在胡同里转悠的人大都是来自中国其他地方的游客。我猜想,这些游客也只是想看看老北京人的生活方式,这并非他们所渴望的生活方式。


urists, the hutongs occupy the same place as, say, a Colonial Williamsburg, an interesting and abstract glimpse into the way people used to live, but not a desirable everyday lifestyle. The driver in the Los Angeles Times bureau here shook his head in disbelief when he heard I’d moved into a hutong neighborhood instead of the diplomatic compound. He grew up in the cramped quarters of a shared courtyard dwelling, and escaped as soon as possible. I like apartments, he said. They have modern conveniences. It’s easy to get melancholy about the disappearance of the hutongs. But I tell myself that this is the face of China. Not the romantic, idealized version, but the more complicated reality of a country whose explosive economic growth is driving what often feels like warp-speed social evolution. On a balmy Sunday afternoon, we sit under the trees of our courtyard. Kites float in an uncharacteristically clear sky, and the neighbors have released their bands of trained pigeons to circle in the fading golden light. The birds swoop low over our house, stirring the air with their wings, and the colors of sunset glimmer on their bellies. I savor these minutes, because I know they are fleeting. Like most people in this booming country, the owner of our house is looking for an even better investment. We hear she’s selling the place to a man who wants to create a clothing shop in trib  《洛杉矶时报》驻京办事处的司机听说我从外交公寓搬到胡同里后,直摇头,一副难以置信的样子。他就是在一个拥挤的大杂院里长大的,一有能力就赶快搬离了那里。他说,我喜欢公寓,公寓生活更方便。


urists, the hutongs occupy the same place as, say, a Colonial Williamsburg, an interesting and abstract glimpse into the way people used to live, but not a desirable everyday lifestyle. The driver in the Los Angeles Times bureau here shook his head in disbelief when he heard I’d moved into a hutong neighborhood instead of the diplomatic compound. He grew up in the cramped quarters of a shared courtyard dwelling, and escaped as soon as possible. I like apartments, he said. They have modern conveniences. It’s easy to get melancholy about the disappearance of the hutongs. But I tell myself that this is the face of China. Not the romantic, idealized version, but the more complicated reality of a country whose explosive economic growth is driving what often feels like warp-speed social evolution. On a balmy Sunday afternoon, we sit under the trees of our courtyard. Kites float in an uncharacteristically clear sky, and the neighbors have released their bands of trained pigeons to circle in the fading golden light. The birds swoop low over our house, stirring the air with their wings, and the colors of sunset glimmer on their bellies. I savor these minutes, because I know they are fleeting. Like most people in this booming country, the owner of our house is looking for an even better investment. We hear she’s selling the place to a man who wants to create a clothing shop in trib  一想到那些消失的胡同,人就很容易变得忧郁。但是,我告诉自己:这就是中国的面孔。不是浪漫而理想化的,而是经济增长促使社会演变的复杂现实。


ing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people. Besides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles. All around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock. There’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble. In a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City. Preservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care. Most of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces. I imagine that, to these to  在周日一个温和的午后,我们坐在院子里的树荫下。少有的明净天空中,风筝飞得很高很高。邻居在放飞他们训练有素的鸽子,在落日的余晖中,鸽子一圈一圈地飞翱着。小鸟低低地飞过我们的房顶,腹部闪烁着落日的金色。


原文地址:美国女记者眼中"半真半假"的北京胡同作者:翟华美国《洛杉矶时报》9月5日发表记者Megan K. Stack女士发自北京的报道,题目是A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane(北京半真半假的老胡同游)。文章摘要如下(译文来自参考网,英语原文附后):   我们这条街充满了故事与谎言。关于这条街的故事大都是零星散乱的。这条胡同叫大金丝,源于皇家裁缝所使用的金线。过去,这条街上住的都是御用女裁缝和染匠。故事大概就是这样的。   可是,你站在院门口,会听到各种编造不一的谎言。那些超级富有想像力的导游站在汗流浃背的游客们面前,指着木制横梁和大门两边的抱鼓石,开始胡编乱造起来:从这里我们可以看到,这里住的肯定是一位军中要人!这些字则告诉我们,这里还住过非常受人尊敬的学者!   这当然是在胡说八道。其实这是一座隐蔽在老房子中间的新房子。房主拆掉了老房子,翻建成了新房子,只是在重建的过程中加入了一些四合院的传统元素:灰瓦斜屋顶,开满了花的果树。   但是,这座房子还有天窗、地下室和全新的电器。我们刚搬进来时,甚至还能闻到水泥和木头的味道。   可是,我没有打断那些导游,或者跟他们对质。我像其他人一样享受着这些故事。我们躲在墙的另一边听着,直到游客们远去。不过,我觉得如果游客们睁大眼睛就会知道是怎么回事,因为在来我们院门口的路上,他们得绕过一堆堆的新木头、新砖和新瓦片。   我们的邻居纷纷开始翻盖房子。我和丈夫每天都在噪音声中醒来,电锯声、推土机的轰鸣声,不绝于耳。   然而,在拆掉旧房盖新房的过程中也会出现一些超现实的、令人膛目的美。我们转过一个弯,看到一个厨房水盆立在一片废墟的中央;房子的大部分都拆掉了,残垣断壁上,红色的春联依然可见……从某种意义上讲,我们是幸运的。在湖的另一边,钟鼓搂附近的一片地区即将被拆掉,据说是要建个时间文化长廊。当然,古建筑保护主义者对此非常不满,但老百姓似乎不太关心。   带着相机,坐在人乡三轮车上在胡同里转悠的人大都是来自中国其他地方的游客。我猜想,这些游客也只是想看看老北京人的生活方式,这并非他们所渴望的生活方式。   《洛杉矶时报》驻京办事处的司机听说我从外交公寓搬到胡同里后,直摇头,一副难以置信的样子。他就是在一个拥挤的大杂院里长大的,一有能力就赶快搬离了那里。他说,我喜欢公寓,公寓生活更方便。   一想到那些消失的胡同,人就很容易变得忧郁。但是,我告诉自己:这就是中国的面孔。不是浪漫而理想化的,而是经济增长促使社会演变的复杂现实。   在周日一个温和的午后,我们坐在院子里的树荫下。少有的明净天空中,风筝飞得很高很高。邻居在放飞他们训练有素的鸽子,在落日的余晖中,鸽子一圈一圈地飞翱着。小鸟低低地飞过我们的房顶,腹部闪烁着落日的金色。   我尽情地享受着这每一分每一秒,因为我知道,这一切正在消失。像这个繁荣的国家里的大多数人一样,我们的房东正在寻求更好的投资。我们听说,她把我们现在住的这个地方卖给了一名男子,那个人想在这里开一间裁缝店。我们不久之后就得搬到另一个地方了。 A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane By Megan K. Stack BEIJING - O  我尽情地享受着这每一分每一秒,因为我知道,这一切正在消失。像这个繁荣的国家里的大多数人一样,我们的房东正在寻求更好的投资。我们听说,她把我们现在住的这个地方卖给了一名男子,那个人想在这里开一间裁缝店。我们不久之后就得搬到另一个地方了。

 

ute to those long-dead imperial tailors. We’ll soon have to find another place to live. The tourists will love the new store. © Copyright (c) Los Angeles TimesA trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane
 
 原文地址:美国女记者眼中"半真半假"的北京胡同作者:翟华美国《洛杉矶时报》9月5日发表记者Megan K. Stack女士发自北京的报道,题目是A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane(北京半真半假的老胡同游)。文章摘要如下(译文来自参考网,英语原文附后):   我们这条街充满了故事与谎言。关于这条街的故事大都是零星散乱的。这条胡同叫大金丝,源于皇家裁缝所使用的金线。过去,这条街上住的都是御用女裁缝和染匠。故事大概就是这样的。   可是,你站在院门口,会听到各种编造不一的谎言。那些超级富有想像力的导游站在汗流浃背的游客们面前,指着木制横梁和大门两边的抱鼓石,开始胡编乱造起来:从这里我们可以看到,这里住的肯定是一位军中要人!这些字则告诉我们,这里还住过非常受人尊敬的学者!   这当然是在胡说八道。其实这是一座隐蔽在老房子中间的新房子。房主拆掉了老房子,翻建成了新房子,只是在重建的过程中加入了一些四合院的传统元素:灰瓦斜屋顶,开满了花的果树。   但是,这座房子还有天窗、地下室和全新的电器。我们刚搬进来时,甚至还能闻到水泥和木头的味道。   可是,我没有打断那些导游,或者跟他们对质。我像其他人一样享受着这些故事。我们躲在墙的另一边听着,直到游客们远去。不过,我觉得如果游客们睁大眼睛就会知道是怎么回事,因为在来我们院门口的路上,他们得绕过一堆堆的新木头、新砖和新瓦片。   我们的邻居纷纷开始翻盖房子。我和丈夫每天都在噪音声中醒来,电锯声、推土机的轰鸣声,不绝于耳。   然而,在拆掉旧房盖新房的过程中也会出现一些超现实的、令人膛目的美。我们转过一个弯,看到一个厨房水盆立在一片废墟的中央;房子的大部分都拆掉了,残垣断壁上,红色的春联依然可见……从某种意义上讲,我们是幸运的。在湖的另一边,钟鼓搂附近的一片地区即将被拆掉,据说是要建个时间文化长廊。当然,古建筑保护主义者对此非常不满,但老百姓似乎不太关心。   带着相机,坐在人乡三轮车上在胡同里转悠的人大都是来自中国其他地方的游客。我猜想,这些游客也只是想看看老北京人的生活方式,这并非他们所渴望的生活方式。   《洛杉矶时报》驻京办事处的司机听说我从外交公寓搬到胡同里后,直摇头,一副难以置信的样子。他就是在一个拥挤的大杂院里长大的,一有能力就赶快搬离了那里。他说,我喜欢公寓,公寓生活更方便。   一想到那些消失的胡同,人就很容易变得忧郁。但是,我告诉自己:这就是中国的面孔。不是浪漫而理想化的,而是经济增长促使社会演变的复杂现实。   在周日一个温和的午后,我们坐在院子里的树荫下。少有的明净天空中,风筝飞得很高很高。邻居在放飞他们训练有素的鸽子,在落日的余晖中,鸽子一圈一圈地飞翱着。小鸟低低地飞过我们的房顶,腹部闪烁着落日的金色。   我尽情地享受着这每一分每一秒,因为我知道,这一切正在消失。像这个繁荣的国家里的大多数人一样,我们的房东正在寻求更好的投资。我们听说,她把我们现在住的这个地方卖给了一名男子,那个人想在这里开一间裁缝店。我们不久之后就得搬到另一个地方了。 A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane By Megan K. Stack BEIJING - O
By Megan K. Stack 

 ing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people. Besides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles. All around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock. There’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble. In a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City. Preservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care. Most of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces. I imagine that, to these to
BEIJING - Our street is full of stories and lies.


ute to those long-dead imperial tailors. We’ll soon have to find another place to live. The tourists will love the new store. © Copyright (c) Los Angeles TimesThe stories come in scraps to the street, one of Beijing’s famous but vanishing old alleyways known as hutongs. The alley’s name, Dajinsi, derives from the golden threads used by the imperial tailors when the street was home to the seamstresses and cloth-dyers of the emperor. Or so the story goes.


ur street is full of stories and lies. The stories come in scraps to the street, one of Beijing’s famous but vanishing old alleyways known as hutongs. The alley’s name, Dajinsi, derives from the golden threads used by the imperial tailors when the street was home to the seamstresses and cloth-dyers of the emperor. Or so the story goes. The lies, on the other hand, wash up on our doorstep, where imaginative guides stand before sweating bands of tourists to point out the wooden beams and squat stone statues, spinning tales about the previous dwellers: From this we see it was somebody important in the military! This characteristic tells us that here lived a respected academic! It’s all nonsense, of course. It’s a brand-new house disguised as an old one. The owner leveled the old properties, then layered some traditional touches into the reconstruction: the sloping gray-tile roof, the flowering fruit tree, the courtyard joining one part of the house to the other. But it’s also got skylights, a finished basement and shiny appliances. When we first moved in, you could smell the newness of the poured concrete and wooden beams. Still, I don’t interrupt or contradict the guides. I enjoy the stories as much as anybody. I’ll lurk on the other side of the wall and listen until the tourists shuffle down a few doors, where one of our neighbors seems to be doing a brisk business in showThe lies, on the other hand, wash up on our doorstep, where imaginative guides stand before sweating bands of tourists to point out the wooden beams and squat stone statues, spinning tales about the previous dwellers: From this we see it was somebody important in the military! This characteristic tells us that here lived a respected academic!


ing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people. Besides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles. All around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock. There’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble. In a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City. Preservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care. Most of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces. I imagine that, to these toIt’s all nonsense, of course. It’s a brand-new house disguised as an old one. The owner leveled the old properties, then layered some traditional touches into the reconstruction: the sloping gray-tile roof, the flowering fruit tree, the courtyard joining one part of the house to the other.


ur street is full of stories and lies. The stories come in scraps to the street, one of Beijing’s famous but vanishing old alleyways known as hutongs. The alley’s name, Dajinsi, derives from the golden threads used by the imperial tailors when the street was home to the seamstresses and cloth-dyers of the emperor. Or so the story goes. The lies, on the other hand, wash up on our doorstep, where imaginative guides stand before sweating bands of tourists to point out the wooden beams and squat stone statues, spinning tales about the previous dwellers: From this we see it was somebody important in the military! This characteristic tells us that here lived a respected academic! It’s all nonsense, of course. It’s a brand-new house disguised as an old one. The owner leveled the old properties, then layered some traditional touches into the reconstruction: the sloping gray-tile roof, the flowering fruit tree, the courtyard joining one part of the house to the other. But it’s also got skylights, a finished basement and shiny appliances. When we first moved in, you could smell the newness of the poured concrete and wooden beams. Still, I don’t interrupt or contradict the guides. I enjoy the stories as much as anybody. I’ll lurk on the other side of the wall and listen until the tourists shuffle down a few doors, where one of our neighbors seems to be doing a brisk business in showBut it’s also got skylights, a finished basement and shiny appliances. When we first moved in, you could smell the newness of the poured concrete and wooden beams.


ing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people. Besides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles. All around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock. There’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble. In a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City. Preservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care. Most of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces. I imagine that, to these toStill, I don’t interrupt or contradict the guides. I enjoy the stories as much as anybody. I’ll lurk on the other side of the wall and listen until the tourists shuffle down a few doors, where one of our neighbors seems to be doing a brisk business in showing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people.


urists, the hutongs occupy the same place as, say, a Colonial Williamsburg, an interesting and abstract glimpse into the way people used to live, but not a desirable everyday lifestyle. The driver in the Los Angeles Times bureau here shook his head in disbelief when he heard I’d moved into a hutong neighborhood instead of the diplomatic compound. He grew up in the cramped quarters of a shared courtyard dwelling, and escaped as soon as possible. I like apartments, he said. They have modern conveniences. It’s easy to get melancholy about the disappearance of the hutongs. But I tell myself that this is the face of China. Not the romantic, idealized version, but the more complicated reality of a country whose explosive economic growth is driving what often feels like warp-speed social evolution. On a balmy Sunday afternoon, we sit under the trees of our courtyard. Kites float in an uncharacteristically clear sky, and the neighbors have released their bands of trained pigeons to circle in the fading golden light. The birds swoop low over our house, stirring the air with their wings, and the colors of sunset glimmer on their bellies. I savor these minutes, because I know they are fleeting. Like most people in this booming country, the owner of our house is looking for an even better investment. We hear she’s selling the place to a man who wants to create a clothing shop in tribBesides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles.


ing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people. Besides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles. All around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock. There’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble. In a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City. Preservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care. Most of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces. I imagine that, to these toAll around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock.


ute to those long-dead imperial tailors. We’ll soon have to find another place to live. The tourists will love the new store. © Copyright (c) Los Angeles TimesThere’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble.


urists, the hutongs occupy the same place as, say, a Colonial Williamsburg, an interesting and abstract glimpse into the way people used to live, but not a desirable everyday lifestyle. The driver in the Los Angeles Times bureau here shook his head in disbelief when he heard I’d moved into a hutong neighborhood instead of the diplomatic compound. He grew up in the cramped quarters of a shared courtyard dwelling, and escaped as soon as possible. I like apartments, he said. They have modern conveniences. It’s easy to get melancholy about the disappearance of the hutongs. But I tell myself that this is the face of China. Not the romantic, idealized version, but the more complicated reality of a country whose explosive economic growth is driving what often feels like warp-speed social evolution. On a balmy Sunday afternoon, we sit under the trees of our courtyard. Kites float in an uncharacteristically clear sky, and the neighbors have released their bands of trained pigeons to circle in the fading golden light. The birds swoop low over our house, stirring the air with their wings, and the colors of sunset glimmer on their bellies. I savor these minutes, because I know they are fleeting. Like most people in this booming country, the owner of our house is looking for an even better investment. We hear she’s selling the place to a man who wants to create a clothing shop in tribIn a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City.


urists, the hutongs occupy the same place as, say, a Colonial Williamsburg, an interesting and abstract glimpse into the way people used to live, but not a desirable everyday lifestyle. The driver in the Los Angeles Times bureau here shook his head in disbelief when he heard I’d moved into a hutong neighborhood instead of the diplomatic compound. He grew up in the cramped quarters of a shared courtyard dwelling, and escaped as soon as possible. I like apartments, he said. They have modern conveniences. It’s easy to get melancholy about the disappearance of the hutongs. But I tell myself that this is the face of China. Not the romantic, idealized version, but the more complicated reality of a country whose explosive economic growth is driving what often feels like warp-speed social evolution. On a balmy Sunday afternoon, we sit under the trees of our courtyard. Kites float in an uncharacteristically clear sky, and the neighbors have released their bands of trained pigeons to circle in the fading golden light. The birds swoop low over our house, stirring the air with their wings, and the colors of sunset glimmer on their bellies. I savor these minutes, because I know they are fleeting. Like most people in this booming country, the owner of our house is looking for an even better investment. We hear she’s selling the place to a man who wants to create a clothing shop in tribPreservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care.


ing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people. Besides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles. All around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock. There’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble. In a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City. Preservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care. Most of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces. I imagine that, to these toMost of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces.


原文地址:美国女记者眼中"半真半假"的北京胡同作者:翟华美国《洛杉矶时报》9月5日发表记者Megan K. Stack女士发自北京的报道,题目是A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane(北京半真半假的老胡同游)。文章摘要如下(译文来自参考网,英语原文附后):   我们这条街充满了故事与谎言。关于这条街的故事大都是零星散乱的。这条胡同叫大金丝,源于皇家裁缝所使用的金线。过去,这条街上住的都是御用女裁缝和染匠。故事大概就是这样的。   可是,你站在院门口,会听到各种编造不一的谎言。那些超级富有想像力的导游站在汗流浃背的游客们面前,指着木制横梁和大门两边的抱鼓石,开始胡编乱造起来:从这里我们可以看到,这里住的肯定是一位军中要人!这些字则告诉我们,这里还住过非常受人尊敬的学者!   这当然是在胡说八道。其实这是一座隐蔽在老房子中间的新房子。房主拆掉了老房子,翻建成了新房子,只是在重建的过程中加入了一些四合院的传统元素:灰瓦斜屋顶,开满了花的果树。   但是,这座房子还有天窗、地下室和全新的电器。我们刚搬进来时,甚至还能闻到水泥和木头的味道。   可是,我没有打断那些导游,或者跟他们对质。我像其他人一样享受着这些故事。我们躲在墙的另一边听着,直到游客们远去。不过,我觉得如果游客们睁大眼睛就会知道是怎么回事,因为在来我们院门口的路上,他们得绕过一堆堆的新木头、新砖和新瓦片。   我们的邻居纷纷开始翻盖房子。我和丈夫每天都在噪音声中醒来,电锯声、推土机的轰鸣声,不绝于耳。   然而,在拆掉旧房盖新房的过程中也会出现一些超现实的、令人膛目的美。我们转过一个弯,看到一个厨房水盆立在一片废墟的中央;房子的大部分都拆掉了,残垣断壁上,红色的春联依然可见……从某种意义上讲,我们是幸运的。在湖的另一边,钟鼓搂附近的一片地区即将被拆掉,据说是要建个时间文化长廊。当然,古建筑保护主义者对此非常不满,但老百姓似乎不太关心。   带着相机,坐在人乡三轮车上在胡同里转悠的人大都是来自中国其他地方的游客。我猜想,这些游客也只是想看看老北京人的生活方式,这并非他们所渴望的生活方式。   《洛杉矶时报》驻京办事处的司机听说我从外交公寓搬到胡同里后,直摇头,一副难以置信的样子。他就是在一个拥挤的大杂院里长大的,一有能力就赶快搬离了那里。他说,我喜欢公寓,公寓生活更方便。   一想到那些消失的胡同,人就很容易变得忧郁。但是,我告诉自己:这就是中国的面孔。不是浪漫而理想化的,而是经济增长促使社会演变的复杂现实。   在周日一个温和的午后,我们坐在院子里的树荫下。少有的明净天空中,风筝飞得很高很高。邻居在放飞他们训练有素的鸽子,在落日的余晖中,鸽子一圈一圈地飞翱着。小鸟低低地飞过我们的房顶,腹部闪烁着落日的金色。   我尽情地享受着这每一分每一秒,因为我知道,这一切正在消失。像这个繁荣的国家里的大多数人一样,我们的房东正在寻求更好的投资。我们听说,她把我们现在住的这个地方卖给了一名男子,那个人想在这里开一间裁缝店。我们不久之后就得搬到另一个地方了。 A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane By Megan K. Stack BEIJING - OI imagine that, to these tourists, the hutongs occupy the same place as, say, a Colonial Williamsburg, an interesting and abstract glimpse into the way people used to live, but not a desirable everyday lifestyle.


ing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people. Besides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles. All around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock. There’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble. In a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City. Preservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care. Most of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces. I imagine that, to these toThe driver in the Los Angeles Times bureau here shook his head in disbelief when he heard I’d moved into a hutong neighborhood instead of the diplomatic compound. He grew up in the cramped quarters of a shared courtyard dwelling, and escaped as soon as possible. I like apartments, he said. They have modern conveniences.


ute to those long-dead imperial tailors. We’ll soon have to find another place to live. The tourists will love the new store. © Copyright (c) Los Angeles TimesIt’s easy to get melancholy about the disappearance of the hutongs.


ute to those long-dead imperial tailors. We’ll soon have to find another place to live. The tourists will love the new store. © Copyright (c) Los Angeles TimesBut I tell myself that this is the face of China. Not the romantic, idealized version, but the more complicated reality of a country whose explosive economic growth is driving what often feels like warp-speed social evolution.


urists, the hutongs occupy the same place as, say, a Colonial Williamsburg, an interesting and abstract glimpse into the way people used to live, but not a desirable everyday lifestyle. The driver in the Los Angeles Times bureau here shook his head in disbelief when he heard I’d moved into a hutong neighborhood instead of the diplomatic compound. He grew up in the cramped quarters of a shared courtyard dwelling, and escaped as soon as possible. I like apartments, he said. They have modern conveniences. It’s easy to get melancholy about the disappearance of the hutongs. But I tell myself that this is the face of China. Not the romantic, idealized version, but the more complicated reality of a country whose explosive economic growth is driving what often feels like warp-speed social evolution. On a balmy Sunday afternoon, we sit under the trees of our courtyard. Kites float in an uncharacteristically clear sky, and the neighbors have released their bands of trained pigeons to circle in the fading golden light. The birds swoop low over our house, stirring the air with their wings, and the colors of sunset glimmer on their bellies. I savor these minutes, because I know they are fleeting. Like most people in this booming country, the owner of our house is looking for an even better investment. We hear she’s selling the place to a man who wants to create a clothing shop in tribOn a balmy Sunday afternoon, we sit under the trees of our courtyard. Kites float in an uncharacteristically clear sky, and the neighbors have released their bands of trained pigeons to circle in the fading golden light. The birds swoop low over our house, stirring the air with their wings, and the colors of sunset glimmer on their bellies.


原文地址:美国女记者眼中"半真半假"的北京胡同作者:翟华美国《洛杉矶时报》9月5日发表记者Megan K. Stack女士发自北京的报道,题目是A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane(北京半真半假的老胡同游)。文章摘要如下(译文来自参考网,英语原文附后):   我们这条街充满了故事与谎言。关于这条街的故事大都是零星散乱的。这条胡同叫大金丝,源于皇家裁缝所使用的金线。过去,这条街上住的都是御用女裁缝和染匠。故事大概就是这样的。   可是,你站在院门口,会听到各种编造不一的谎言。那些超级富有想像力的导游站在汗流浃背的游客们面前,指着木制横梁和大门两边的抱鼓石,开始胡编乱造起来:从这里我们可以看到,这里住的肯定是一位军中要人!这些字则告诉我们,这里还住过非常受人尊敬的学者!   这当然是在胡说八道。其实这是一座隐蔽在老房子中间的新房子。房主拆掉了老房子,翻建成了新房子,只是在重建的过程中加入了一些四合院的传统元素:灰瓦斜屋顶,开满了花的果树。   但是,这座房子还有天窗、地下室和全新的电器。我们刚搬进来时,甚至还能闻到水泥和木头的味道。   可是,我没有打断那些导游,或者跟他们对质。我像其他人一样享受着这些故事。我们躲在墙的另一边听着,直到游客们远去。不过,我觉得如果游客们睁大眼睛就会知道是怎么回事,因为在来我们院门口的路上,他们得绕过一堆堆的新木头、新砖和新瓦片。   我们的邻居纷纷开始翻盖房子。我和丈夫每天都在噪音声中醒来,电锯声、推土机的轰鸣声,不绝于耳。   然而,在拆掉旧房盖新房的过程中也会出现一些超现实的、令人膛目的美。我们转过一个弯,看到一个厨房水盆立在一片废墟的中央;房子的大部分都拆掉了,残垣断壁上,红色的春联依然可见……从某种意义上讲,我们是幸运的。在湖的另一边,钟鼓搂附近的一片地区即将被拆掉,据说是要建个时间文化长廊。当然,古建筑保护主义者对此非常不满,但老百姓似乎不太关心。   带着相机,坐在人乡三轮车上在胡同里转悠的人大都是来自中国其他地方的游客。我猜想,这些游客也只是想看看老北京人的生活方式,这并非他们所渴望的生活方式。   《洛杉矶时报》驻京办事处的司机听说我从外交公寓搬到胡同里后,直摇头,一副难以置信的样子。他就是在一个拥挤的大杂院里长大的,一有能力就赶快搬离了那里。他说,我喜欢公寓,公寓生活更方便。   一想到那些消失的胡同,人就很容易变得忧郁。但是,我告诉自己:这就是中国的面孔。不是浪漫而理想化的,而是经济增长促使社会演变的复杂现实。   在周日一个温和的午后,我们坐在院子里的树荫下。少有的明净天空中,风筝飞得很高很高。邻居在放飞他们训练有素的鸽子,在落日的余晖中,鸽子一圈一圈地飞翱着。小鸟低低地飞过我们的房顶,腹部闪烁着落日的金色。   我尽情地享受着这每一分每一秒,因为我知道,这一切正在消失。像这个繁荣的国家里的大多数人一样,我们的房东正在寻求更好的投资。我们听说,她把我们现在住的这个地方卖给了一名男子,那个人想在这里开一间裁缝店。我们不久之后就得搬到另一个地方了。 A trip down Beijing’s half-fake memory lane By Megan K. Stack BEIJING - OI savor these minutes, because I know they are fleeting. Like most people in this booming country, the owner of our house is looking for an even better investment. We hear she’s selling the place to a man who wants to create a clothing shop in tribute to those long-dead imperial tailors. We’ll soon have to find another place to live.


ur street is full of stories and lies. The stories come in scraps to the street, one of Beijing’s famous but vanishing old alleyways known as hutongs. The alley’s name, Dajinsi, derives from the golden threads used by the imperial tailors when the street was home to the seamstresses and cloth-dyers of the emperor. Or so the story goes. The lies, on the other hand, wash up on our doorstep, where imaginative guides stand before sweating bands of tourists to point out the wooden beams and squat stone statues, spinning tales about the previous dwellers: From this we see it was somebody important in the military! This characteristic tells us that here lived a respected academic! It’s all nonsense, of course. It’s a brand-new house disguised as an old one. The owner leveled the old properties, then layered some traditional touches into the reconstruction: the sloping gray-tile roof, the flowering fruit tree, the courtyard joining one part of the house to the other. But it’s also got skylights, a finished basement and shiny appliances. When we first moved in, you could smell the newness of the poured concrete and wooden beams. Still, I don’t interrupt or contradict the guides. I enjoy the stories as much as anybody. I’ll lurk on the other side of the wall and listen until the tourists shuffle down a few doors, where one of our neighbors seems to be doing a brisk business in showThe tourists will love the new store.

 

ing off an honest-to-goodness Chinese courtyard house occupied by authentic Chinese people. Besides, I figure that if the tourists have their eyes open, they probably get the picture. On the way to our door, they step around piles of fresh lumber, mountains of new brick, listing loads of roofing tiles. All around us, workers are tearing down the neighborhood and rebuilding it from scratch. My husband and I wake up to the whine of chainsaws, the roar of stonecutters whittling out statues identical to the ones flanking our doors, the groan of bulldozers moving great piles of dirt and rock. There’s a surreal, surprising beauty to the process. We go around a bend in the road and find a lone kitchen sink standing guard over the wreckage of a home; a facade sheared off, red Chinese New Year posters still clinging to the exposed walls with yellowed tape; a building where before there had been a pile of rubble. In a way, we are the lucky ones. On the other side of a nearby lake, one of Beijing’s most beloved neighborhoods is getting ripped down, to be replaced with something called the Beijing Time Cultural City. Preservationists, of course, are outraged. But few ordinary people seem to care. Most of the tourists who lug their cameras and clamber into rickshaws to tour our neighborhood are, as far as I can tell, Chinese visitors from other provinces. I imagine that, to these to© Copyright (c) Los Angeles Times

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