It’s possible to exist in Shanghai as if inside a glorious bubble. Villa, maid, driver, tailor. Spa and manicure. Opera and acrobats. Champagne at breakfast, dinner at Jean Georges. But don’t stop there. Every once in a while, it might pay to detour past the factories and foodstalls, to pause on a bridge above a gridlocked expressway or a fetid canal. Share the road and its potholes with cement mixers and handcarts. Wince at the blare of horns, wrinkle your nose at the alternate scents of steaming and frying, solvent and glue. Stand at an intersection and witness all those knees going up and down, with no particular rhyme or rhythm. Try to get a grip on all those different destinations and desires. This is China after all, and you are not one in a million, but one among billions.