The Grand Canal, which passes through, is a mighty accomplishment from the Sui dynasty of a thousand years ago. It unites Hangzhou in the south with Beijing, the capital, in the north. It still carries great cargoes of coal and other bulk materials.

We visited a power plant established on a diversion of water from the canal. The guard here, while good-natured, declined an opportunity to be photographed, and followed his orders in advising us that entering the power plant was strictly forbidden.

I meandered somewhat surreptitiously inside anyway without encountering a soul, and viewed the eight humming turbines. I did not, however, risk bringing down official wrath by taking pictures.

I had been wondering if there was a rickshaw left in China. (For the young: the rickshaw is that two-wheeled vehicle with two long bars grasped by a man who stands between the bars and pulls the contraption along with one or two seated passengers.)

At a place where Slender West Lake is least slender and contains a lovely park, we found and rode a rickshaw drawn by a young man dressed in a traditional two-piece yellow silk suit resembling pajamas. Because the rickshaw has long symbolized China's hitherto undeveloped, subordinate position vis-à-vis the West, my Chinese guide at first preferred to walk beside the rickshaw while I rode. I persuaded him to join me, partly by pointing out that, at 40 yuan (nearly $5), the driver would earn a good wage for the one-mile trip.

I look forward to tomorrow when I'll truly visit the countryside, the poorer rural area. My only worry tonight is whether the restaurants will remain open long enough to supply a dinner to a hungry American.