On China
The sour salt smell that wreathed the air. The cool tongue of the breeze licking our naked nose and cheeks. The immaculately planned city running like clockwork. Low-speed scooters that come with gloves, and women that trod in high heels. A 4-year old city where the smog pokes you in the throat. But a few nanjing-sized leaps away and the magic of Ancient China is revealed. The Yengzte River, all-encompassing, sitting there like a birthright. Boats line the banks and floating homes like dangling paper lanterns. The Chinese definition of a garden: a man-made valley funneled by lakes, bridges, worship sites, resting pavilions, and fen shui bouncing off the heel, water and stone. The Chinese definition of a feast: 200 dishes groaning under hall-length tables, along with the bellies of guests. Their appetites match their hospitality. Steamed blacked fish with white eyes staring back, split chicken heads with brains peeping through. Dozens of ways to fry a pig, teaches China. Flavored beer making the cheeks of the Europeans match the paper lanterns. The provincial capital, a metropolis by South Asian terms. Buildings scraping the clouds, and new ones on the way. Nanjing's quaint roads too narrow for the bevy of buses. Xi'an's traffic, however murderous, remind me of home. The crowded streets of curious people, stunned at your brownness. The Muslim Quarters and the food vendors decking both sides, as shops jutting out sell tea ware, souvenirs, silk and jade. The Silk Route lives on. The revolt that is shanghai to the senses. One part London, one part China. Buildings in a race to top the other, while on the ground, foreigners take out their babies in strollers and men in designer business suits always seem in a hurry. The packaged China, tourist style Shanghai. Unlike the unapologetic, grim faced Urumqi. You could be fooled you were in Turkmenistan. Neon signs shouting for you to enter empty streets and hallways, perhaps to get a fill of your nocturnal desires, or maybe leading to an innocuous convenient store. The sounds of expectorating men and images of spitting women follow you to the airport. A midnight snack in Xi'an where being a Muslim means most certainly being welcome. The vast plains of Shaanxi, and the deep pits spitting out terracotta warriors. Studio villages set up in Yangzhou where the town sluts up its traditional best. Paper and wood carves lotuses and sandalwood-scented pagodas. The vast, wide serenity past the ticket booth and security check. A Panama gentlemen speaks of contamination, as he breaks off a leaf in his hand and shows me. Look, dirty from the outside- green and new from the inside, he says. Salty squids lanced on wooden sticks and duck eggs tasting of chicken. The seafood nation offers its best wares, and they don't disappoint. Until I see turtle soup on the buffet one day. Children suck on cherry tomatoes and chew on salty pork on sticks. The houses are built with slanting roofs, big doors and low ceilings. Weaving through the tunnel of stalls and useless knickknacks, a women eats an apple. Another shouts as she haringes her poker buddies in the middle of the corridor. One gets accustomed to the loud volume of conversations. Bubbly fresh tour guides offer insight into the meanings of fresh streets, the graveyard of tunnels, and 3,000-year old pagodas lining the chowk like a regular phone pole.
Big, bustling, forgiving. An easy nation that glides on in the daily mechanism that is life.
The sour salt smell that wreathed the air. The cool tongue of the breeze licking our naked nose and cheeks. The immaculately planned city running like clockwork. Low-speed scooters that come with gloves, and women that trod in high heels. A 4-year old city where the smog pokes you in the throat. But a few nanjing-sized leaps away and the magic of Ancient China is revealed. The Yengzte River, all-encompassing, sitting there like a birthright. Boats line the banks and floating homes like dangling paper lanterns. The Chinese definition of a garden: a man-made valley funneled by lakes, bridges, worship sites, resting pavilions, and fen shui bouncing off the heel, water and stone. The Chinese definition of a feast: 200 dishes groaning under hall-length tables, along with the bellies of guests. Their appetites match their hospitality. Steamed blacked fish with white eyes staring back, split chicken heads with brains peeping through. Dozens of ways to fry a pig, teaches China. Flavored beer making the cheeks of the Europeans match the paper lanterns. The provincial capital, a metropolis by South Asian terms. Buildings scraping the clouds, and new ones on the way. Nanjing's quaint roads too narrow for the bevy of buses. Xi'an's traffic, however murderous, remind me of home. The crowded streets of curious people, stunned at your brownness. The Muslim Quarters and the food vendors decking both sides, as shops jutting out sell tea ware, souvenirs, silk and jade. The Silk Route lives on. The revolt that is shanghai to the senses. One part London, one part China. Buildings in a race to top the other, while on the ground, foreigners take out their babies in strollers and men in designer business suits always seem in a hurry. The packaged China, tourist style Shanghai. Unlike the unapologetic, grim faced Urumqi. You could be fooled you were in Turkmenistan. Neon signs shouting for you to enter empty streets and hallways, perhaps to get a fill of your nocturnal desires, or maybe leading to an innocuous convenient store. The sounds of expectorating men and images of spitting women follow you to the airport. A midnight snack in Xi'an where being a Muslim means most certainly being welcome. The vast plains of Shaanxi, and the deep pits spitting out terracotta warriors. Studio villages set up in Yangzhou where the town sluts up its traditional best. Paper and wood carves lotuses and sandalwood-scented pagodas. The vast, wide serenity past the ticket booth and security check. A Panama gentlemen speaks of contamination, as he breaks off a leaf in his hand and shows me. Look, dirty from the outside- green and new from the inside, he says. Salty squids lanced on wooden sticks and duck eggs tasting of chicken. The seafood nation offers its best wares, and they don't disappoint. Until I see turtle soup on the buffet one day. Children suck on cherry tomatoes and chew on salty pork on sticks. The houses are built with slanting roofs, big doors and low ceilings. Weaving through the tunnel of stalls and useless knickknacks, a women eats an apple. Another shouts as she haringes her poker buddies in the middle of the corridor. One gets accustomed to the loud volume of conversations. Bubbly fresh tour guides offer insight into the meanings of fresh streets, the graveyard of tunnels, and 3,000-year old pagodas lining the chowk like a regular phone pole.
Big, bustling, forgiving. An easy nation that glides on in the daily mechanism that is life.
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