Here is how fast my learning curve has been here in China. Last night, in the 7 blocks between Beixinjing Station and home, I learned the following:

Leaving the taxi stand to try to go upstream from the subway stop does not net you a taxi in this city. There just are none at rush hour in that general area. They are repelled by some sort of force field.

Serious consideration should be given at this hour to accepting a paid ride home from an unlicensed moped taxi, especially the ones with an extra helmet dangling for the passenger. China is a country that understands supply and demand; there is a reason there are about 3 dozen of these guys at the subway exit!

If you don't know where you are going, and are in a hurry to get home to relieve the ayi who you didn't ask to work late, odds are good that at this time (but at no other time) you will end up on a quaint pedestrian pathway with stone bridges and bicycles and NO CHANCE OF A TAXI.

Once you get on the right road, walking in the direction of home does not karmically grant you a taxi as it would in New York.

The worst smells in this city -- the most truly evil ones -- are found in large, apparently barren areas with no obvious source.

Crossing the street to stay on crosswalks like a law abiding citizen will cause an available taxi to slip past where you just were.

Seven blocks on the map are not the same as seven New York City blocks. The ratio seems to be about 1:3. In New York, 20 blocks equals 1 mile. In Shanghai, I walked for 40 minutes to get 7 blocks and am pretty sure it was just over a mile.

When it's really hot and muggy, sweat dripping down off the forehead really does sting the eyes, just like in books.

Twittering is the opiate of the masses. It is as close to prayer as a secular person can get -- the sense that you are never alone, that someone is listening out there, that someone cares.

Twittering about being taxilorn can cost you ANOTHER TAXI. !@#$%^&!

Sweat, or maybe ambient humidity, can make even a beloved pair of stylish sandals rub the feet the wrong way.

Blisters developed on Shanghai streets become instantaneously infected. Having stepped in a puddle of garbage juice earlier probably doesn't help.

The mystery of why James takes a taxi every morning 7 blocks to the subway station is now easily comprehensible.

Phone calls from chirpy little voices wondering how soon I will be home and whether they can start eating their pasta without me are a wonderful boost.

And finally -- it's good to be home!