A more appropriate title, I suppose, would be something like 'From my Balcony' or something similar, as my balcony is a great vantage point from where I observe my neighbours – and the text is about them, not about smoking.

I live on the third floor (counting the Chinese way, where 'ground floor' is already 'first'), my balcony is directed towards the central square of my compound, so often, when I go there to get some fresh air or to see what the weather is like I can see what my neighbours are up to.
This text is meant as an observation only.
On a bench next to the fountain sits a young couple, about maybe twenty-five-years-old. From the first moment it is clear that not all is great and it is not a nice date. I can hear harsh, angry words. After a while the girl rises, walks away, and sits on a bench a dozen steps away.
A few moments of unpleasant silence, then the boy reaches to his pocket, punches in a number. The girl's mobile starts to ring, the most famous fragment of the Star Wars soundtrack. She accepts the incoming call, puts the phone to her ear, the boy starts to explain something.
A man, about 40-years-old and a little boy run out of the building next to mine. The man is carrying a small plastic bucket and the boy - a blue shopping bag. They approach the fountain, check if no one sees them, the man swings the bucket in his hands, a medium sized tortoise falls out of the bucket and into the water. Both culprits run away, stop by a dumpster, throw away the bucket and the plastic bag, and disappear inside the building.
For some time I watch the tortoise swimming around in the fountain. The water is deep, there is nowhere for the animal to rest. I go to the office of the compound administration, tell them what happened. Nobody seems bothered, in the evening I ask if anyone did anything to get the tortoise out.
Yes, I hear.
I am glad my intervention helped, without it the animal would drown. What happened to it later is a different story, someone probably ate it for dinner.
70-year-old woman is standing on the lawn in front of my windows talking to someone above, on the eighth floor. She is holding a small plastic bag, one of those that you get your take-away breakfast in. On her left, three steps away exactly, is a trash bin. The grandma finishes the conversation, puts the last bite into her mouth. The plastic bag lands on the ground, literally as if the woman lost all control over the muscles in her hand and the bag just fell from it under its own weight.
Saturday, five in the morning. On a bench by the fountain three girls, maybe 20-years-old, are chatting quietly. It looks like they were out all night and don't feel like going home yet. When they finally leave, on the ground around the bench I can see: three plastic bottles, a small paper milk carton, a cover of a women's magazine, and a few crumpled napkins.
A trash bin stands a few steps away.
A woman with a little boy walk out of the building next door. They stop on the pavement, after a few words the little boy pulls down his trousers and starts peeing into the rain drain.
The mother waits patiently, then helps her son zip up his trousers, takes his hand, and they walk away.
Every day in the morning, when the sun appears from below the horizon, one of the security guards pulls the Chinese national flag onto a pole in the centre of the compound. In the evening, when it starts getting dark, the flag is taken down, and this ritual is repeated every day.
Once, during a very windy morning, the security guard has to fight with the material, the wind, which is also trying to steal the man's hat, is not helping.
The flag is half-way up before the man realises that it is upside-down...
Two men - black shiny shoes, white socks, black trousers, white shirts, mobile phone cases on their hips, a typical example of "busimessmen class 2" (misspelling intentional) - walk out of a building, both are carrying plastic bags filled with fireworks.
After the first explosion I can see compound cleaners approaching from all sides, carrying brushes and dust pans, one is also dragging over a dumpster.
The men are having heaps of fun, fragments of firework wrappers fall on cars, trees, and all over the grass and pavement around.
The cannonade lasts for fifteen minutes, then the two men go home, and then it takes nine people fourty-five minutes to clean the mess up.
It is raining. A young woman from a building next door is returning from a walk with her dog. Just before the entrance she squats and pulls out a napkin from her trouser pocket. She cleans the dog's feet, its, ehem, ass, puts the napkin back into the pocket, and they both get inside.
Half past six in the morning. An elderly man is doing exercises tai-chi next to the fountain. Suddenly, from the window on maybe sixth-seventh floor someone throws a baozi (a large dumpling of sorts, a huge chunk of steamed dough, filled with meat or vegetables) at him, missing by inches.
The man calmly looks up, after a moment he returns to his exercises.
A little digression, two years ago in another district of Shanghai someone ended up in hospital with a cracked skull, after something hard and heavy thrown out of a window hit him on the head.
A huge silver car, Lexus GS, stops in front of m building. The driver's door opens, the woman behind the wheel sticks her head outside, looks around. Not seeing anyone, she throws the remains of KFC meal no. 3 on the ground.
Another digression. The Chinese spit. This is one of their less-pleasant habits that most foreign visitors remember. Even the SARS epidemic, during which Shanghai was plastered over with "Don't Spit" posters (some of them can still be seen today, torn, faded, and as ignored as two years ago), didn't help to get rid of this disgusting habit.
Problem is, the spitting is not quiet and discrete, it usually starts with a loud KKHHHHH emanating from the region of diaphragm (a common explanation is the need to get rid of dust or smoke or whatever that comes with air pollution that ends up in the lungs and throat), then a more or less discrete GLGLGLGGLG follows, when the load is gathered in the mouth, and finally the spittle is released. Doesn't matter where, on a bus, in a restaurant, in an exam room...
An older man is walking by my windows. I can hear the characteristic sound, KHHHH.... I don't know why, but I start counting the steps, one, two... five, six, seven... nine. Eleven. SPIT, only now the spittle lands on the concrete.
Ten in the evening, something heavy falls to the ground. After a while I can hear shouts - tell-tale signs if a fight about to happen. I have a look out of the window, two men are trying to punch each other, they aren't too successful though, two security guards are trying to separate them. Almost immediately two policemen on motorbikes arrive (yet another digression, you can't see them too often, but if they are needed they appear right away), and three more in a car shortly after.
The two men, not put off by the presence of the officers are still fighting, still hoping for that knock-out punch.
Half of the compound is on the balconies checking out the fracas, these more adventurous and in need of a more direct involvement gather at the scene, at one point, an hour after it all started, there are sixty (!) people right below my windows, each and every one of them with an opinion.
Half past eleven an ambulance arrives and screeches to a stop below my balcony, and someone is taken to a hospital. The crowd starts to thin out, half past twelve it gets quiet enough for me to try and go to sleep.
A few weeks later, at six in the morning this time, I can hear loud angry voices again. I walk out on the balcony, same thing again, two men, two guards, this time however, the 'contestants' aren't so much into the fight, a moment later one of them leaves, shouting obscenities.
One of the guards picks up a jacket and a hat from the ground, I realise that one of the men that were fighting was also a security guard, a man whose job is to guard the peace of my compound...
A huge SUV is trying to back out of a parking lot. The driver, instead of simply driving backwards to the entrance and doing the manoeuvre there, is going to try immediately. After a few minutes he gets hopelessly stuck between two trees, a huge ornamental stone on the lawn, some dustbins, and other parked cars.
It takes fifteen minutes to get the car out with the help of security guards, still, the car gets out into the clear the same way it got in - backwards.
Every morning, if the weather is good, a group of women gather by one of the gates to practice traditional Chinese dance. Usually they have small silk scarves, sometimes fans. One day they happen to have yard-long swords, made from thin, flexible steel. Thin and flexible, but still.
One would think that they would take into account the fact that they are blocking an exit and there are dozens of people going to work, children on the way to school, etc - no way, it is the pedestrians' duty to pay attention and get out of the harm's way.
A beautiful, attractive, maybe 20-year-old girl is walking by. She is dressed in a summer dress, very nice, very feminine, so I am looking with interest.
Suddenly I hear KKKHHH, the girl spits on the pavement without breaking the stride. Somehow the interest disappears.
And just now, Wednesday June 22, as I am proofreading this text - loud voices again, the security guards caught a leaf-letter red-handed. They confiscate a stack of advertisements, the man wants them back, there is a lot of shouting, waving hands around. As always.
06.2005