Just back from my trip to Shanghai, and China’s reputation — its tech prowess and development — preceded it. This made me particularly observant of their daily tools and surroundings. I’m compelled to jot this down like a journal entry before memories fade, especially as I draw comparisons with my experiences in Singapore.
#LAXGO.
In our MRT, there are those faint lines between seats, serving as silent guidelines. These subtle boundaries ensure each passenger has their designated realm, a pocket of personal space that’s implicitly respected. Yet, Shanghai’s metro lacks these unspoken rules.
When there’s even a hint of free space, someone readily nudges in. The result is a cramped commute, where personal bubbles merge and personal boundaries blur.
It feels like an unexpected closeness, an intimacy unasked for. This proximity, though possibly the norm there, felt unfamiliar and a tad overwhelming to me. That kinda of made me wonder was the absence of seat demarcations was an intentional design or just an oversight?
Another thing that caught me off guard in the Shanghai metro was their way — or rather, lack thereof — of signalling stops.
Unlike Singapore, where a light typically indicates your current and next stops, certain lines in Shanghai had no such cue. It became a bit of a game, always trying to figure out which stop I was at, ensuring I didn’t zoom past my intended exit.
It genuinely makes me wonder about the reasoning behind omitting such a handy feature. At first, I assumed it was a quirk unique to the metro, but soon realized it wasn’t.
Just as I had experienced in the metro, a similar challenge presented itself while exploring a cultural park.
While exploring a cultural park, I came across another puzzling design choice. Looking at the park map, I noticed the absence of the familiar ‘You’re here’ indicator.
Navigating through such an expansive space without that guiding point was challenging, to say the least. For a tourist like me, unfamiliar with the layout, it added a layer of complexity to the experience. It wasn’t a complete dealbreaker, but it did make me feel a bit lost at times.
I can’t help but wonder if this was a deliberate choice. Do locals inherently understand their bearings in such places, or was this just an overlooked detail in design?
From navigation challenges to delightful design observations, Shanghai’s transit system never ceased to amaze. One particularly clever design I noticed was their 2-in-1 handrail pamphlet on the trains.
Unlike in Singapore, where advertisements hang separately from the handrails, Shanghai’s version ingeniously integrates the two. This design ensures that the pamphlets, being securely affixed to the handrails, aren’t easily dislodged by passing commuters or gusts of wind from moving trains. A compartment that looks neater and is free of discarded or fallen pamphlets.
It’s a subtle yet effective way to reduce potential litter. Meanwhile, it got me thinking: perhaps Singapore’s design is purposeful, allowing commuters to easily pick up pamphlets that catch their eye. The contrast between the two approaches is a fascinating study of design philosophy and user behaviour.
After marvelling at the handrail pamphlet design, my attention shifted to the network map. What set Shanghai’s map apart was the inclusion of the Huangpu River’s visuals. This wasn’t merely a design choice but a functional one.
The river’s depiction directly corresponded with the metro stops, clearly highlighting those that were in close proximity to its banks. This made it remarkably easier for travelers, like myself, to determine which stations to alight at if we wanted to explore or stroll along the riverfront.
It had me pondering: how might Singapore’s map look and function if we integrated the Singapore River in a similar manner? The thought of fusing design with such utility is truly captivating.
From the intricacies of transit design to the deeper nuances of political history, my journey in Shanghai offered diverse insights. One particularly thought-provoking stop was the Chinese Communist Party museum, where I encountered the oath taken by its members. Here’s its English translation:
“It is my will to join the Communist Party of China, uphold the Party’s program, observe the provisions of the Party Constitution, fulfill a Party member’s duties, carry out the Party’s decisions, strictly observe Party discipline, guard Party secrets, be loyal to the Party, work hard, fight for communism throughout my life, be ready at all times to sacrifice my all for the Party and the people, and never betray the Party.”
The depth of commitment articulated in this oath speaks to the gravity with which the Party regards its mission and principles. Such strong declarations can be seen across different governments and cultures when the stakes are perceived as high.
Perhaps the extremity of the oath is a testament to the challenges the Party faced in its formative years and the need to galvanize its members towards unwavering dedication.
It’s a reflection of the profound responsibility and commitment the organization expects from its members. This offers a unique perspective into the mindset and ethos of the government while emphasizing the significance of unity and purpose within its ranks.
Delving deeper into the presence of communism, it’s clear that the ideology isn’t just a political system, but also a significant cultural force that permeates various aspects of life in China.
The urban landscape, from public monuments to billboards, echoes the nation’s collective ideals, reinforcing the tenets of communal ownership and mutual progress. Moreover, the oath taken by Party members, as previously mentioned, is a testament to the profound dedication expected from individuals in service of the collective.
The extent of this influence suggests that for many, communism isn’t merely a political stance but a way of life. The ideals of unity, shared responsibility, and common purpose appear to have deeply influenced both the public and private spheres, shaping behaviours, values, and even daily interactions.
It’s intriguing to consider how political doctrines, like communism in China, not only determine governance structures but also influence the cultural and social fabric of a nation. The interplay between politics and identity in China offers a compelling case study of how national ideologies can mould collective consciousness over time.
Interestingly, this prominent display of political ideology and its potential influence on daily life is something I haven’t observed in Singapore, offering a stark contrast in how nations present and integrate their core principles.
Having observed the cultural and political dimensions that permeate the city, my curiosity shifted to the daily technological conveniences that define Shanghai’s urban life.
The reliance on digital platforms is evident: apps like Meituan and Didi have become staples for locals to order food, groceries, and more. This digital shift was evident when I wandered into some of their shopping malls, often finding them less bustling than expected.
I was exploring the Meituan app when I noticed something delightful on the Meituan app: its design adapted to the weather outside, depicting a gloomy sky with raindrops. Such contextual designs are more than just aesthetically pleasing.
By mirroring the user’s immediate environment, they forge a deeper connection, making the digital experience feel attuned to the user’s real-world situation. It’s these thoughtful touches that make technology feel more human, intuitive, and, ultimately, delightful.
Shanghai’s unique design choices, from its metro to its parks, challenged my expectations and perspectives. While they might be everyday norms there, for me, they underscored the richness of diverse experiences in travel. As I reflect on my journey, it’s clear that sometimes, it’s the subtle differences that leave the most lasting impressions.
See you soon, Shanghai! Which country next?
