Old entry- April 1, 2010
Originally to Martin.
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Today, the sky in Beijing was the brilliant clear blue that only comes with those strong north winds that rattle the window panes and whip up dust in angry spirals. It felt like the rough-edged beginning of Spring. I first noticed the wind today when I had to open the windows, because in my absent-minded distraction I left the stove on too long and burned the bamboo steamer that was cooking my breakfast of spinach and mushroom baozi. A smoky haze filled the lounge, where my laundry was stiffly drying in the morning sun. I installed myself on the couch with my slightly ruined breakfast and wished the laundry were yours.
A million irritations with no justifiable causes filled my morning. It's uncomfortable having a new roommate, and this already sterile apartment felt even more barren than usual. I declined an offer to go to lunch with the usual Thursday Lunch Club. To avoid squandering another day camped out on the couch surrounded by chocolate and online TV shows, I went out for a walk in the glorious, heartbreakingly beautiful weather. I was on a mission to get almonds. The past few days had been a wash of unhealthy eating and inactivity, and I was resolved to cleanse myself from inside out. After having watched "The Cove," the Oscar Award-winning documentary on the senseless slaughter of dolphins in Japan, I felt resolved to try a brand of vegetarianism that minimized the consumption of even seafood. So, I needed alternate protein sources. Hence, almonds.
I set out along the familiar pavement, and went out of the west gate of the apartment complex. After a few steps, I rethought my trajectory and turned east instead. I wanted to go to Dongjiao market, where the almonds would be sold at a cheaper wholesale price. Besides, most of the time I just biked there. This would provide me with the opportunity to be distracted by the million goings-on of the streets.
Strangely enough, there was not much to provide distraction. Perhaps I was too focused on the pavement directly before my feet. Perhaps I wanted to shield myself, turn invisible, blocking out everyone and everything as tightly as I was trying to block out the persistent wind. Everything was familiar--too familiar. Perfunctory, even. Like an amorphous shadow of a past life, or the taken-for-granted details of a movie you've watched for the 100th time. Everything was expected, defined, so clear as to be unremarkable. Maybe the excitement of being here--in Beijing, home of the 2008 Olympics, the Northern Capital, the the Heart of Middle Earth and the Centre of the Universe--had been drained. I glanced at the pineapple peelers, the yam roasters, the bread fryers and deflected my steps towards them in a half-hearted pantomime of interest. I really just wanted to get some almonds.
I entered the well-known chaos of the market. Pushy drivers honking, indifferent pedestrians ambling. The trinket shops, the fake plant shops, the small electronics and the bootleg accessories. There were keychains hanging along one door. Some of them were in the shape of rabbits.
Further down, I stopped at the pet stalls. The turtles and goldfish crowded the greyish plastic tubs, filters draped over their sides almost as an afterthought. Hamsters and rabbits nestled in their paper shavings, and I saw a girl rummaging through a cardboard box no bigger than a wastebasket, flipping over puppies like dirty laundry until she found the one she wanted. I stood there in silence, in pain. I wondered how often you had come there and picked out fish--'the best ones,' you always said--to enliven the turtle tank at home. A woman asked me what I was looking for. I stared back at her, uncomprehendingly. I looked at the rows of fish bowls, hamster food, bird cages, aquarium nets. There was a knot in my chest.
I bought some almonds. I bought them at the first stand I came to. I didn't really try bargaining. The other stands I asked later all stated the same price anyway. Imported from the USA.
On the way out, I noticed a shopkeeper wrapping up a bouquet of flowers for a waiting customer. Daisies and I don't know what else--a mass of white and purple and yellow. I looked at the customer. I looked at the bouquet. I looked at the shop. The whole doorway was crowded with bunches of flowers--long-stemmed roses sold individually, clusters of blossoms arranged as centerpieces, and a confusion of unidentifiable blossoms in the darkened interior. Normally, crowded entryways daunt me, because the mere act of entering makes me feel obliged to buy something. Or at least establish rapport with the stranger who runs the shop, which is worse. Overcoming my usual fears, however, I dove into the shop, squeezed past a man who was sweeping the mud off the tiled floor, and was confronted with a wall of lilies--white ones and pink stargazer ones. I stared. I must have asked the price. Ten rmb per stem--5 rmb cheaper than the ones usually sold in the neat, civilized little flower shop next to our neat, civilized apartment complex. I asked for two stems of the stargazer ones--the same kind I bought on an impulse on a different fine, lonely afternoon. As I turned to leave, I nearly ran face-first into a rack of suspended orchid plants. Elegant, deep purple blossoms perched along a long arch, the unopened buds hanging like cartoon dewdrops at the end of each noble stem. I asked how much, thinking of the three browning orchid sprouts I had bought during the Spring Festival Temple of Earth Miao Hui, and which were slowly but surely withering away in their white plastic pot. He told me the price. I contemplated the orchids, took in their vibrancy, their delicacy. "They will stay in bloom for one month," the shopkeeper said. I left the shop.
I returned home by way of the canal. It was still pretty rough down by the wholesale market, and the transformation from uneven concrete and scummy banks to the immaculate boulevards closer to the Third Ring Road intersection seemed almost jarring. I looked for the bench that you called romantic. I don't think I found it. I sat down for awhile on a decidedly unromantic bench overlooking the new CCTV tower and the posh hotels of the Central Business District. My shoulders ached. I'd forgotten that they tend to ache when I walk for long stretches of time--I bike most places now in my impatience and quest for efficiency. The sun cast a sympathetic glow on the crescendo of approaching rush-hour traffic. I thought of you, and your goal of walking home to England from Asia. I thought of the boy from The Alchemist, and his advice to the Englishman to pay more attention to the desert, instead of reading books. Maybe I should follow his advice.
--------------------------------
Today, the sky in Beijing was the brilliant clear blue that only comes with those strong north winds that rattle the window panes and whip up dust in angry spirals. It felt like the rough-edged beginning of Spring. I first noticed the wind today when I had to open the windows, because in my absent-minded distraction I left the stove on too long and burned the bamboo steamer that was cooking my breakfast of spinach and mushroom baozi. A smoky haze filled the lounge, where my laundry was stiffly drying in the morning sun. I installed myself on the couch with my slightly ruined breakfast and wished the laundry were yours.
A million irritations with no justifiable causes filled my morning. It's uncomfortable having a new roommate, and this already sterile apartment felt even more barren than usual. I declined an offer to go to lunch with the usual Thursday Lunch Club. To avoid squandering another day camped out on the couch surrounded by chocolate and online TV shows, I went out for a walk in the glorious, heartbreakingly beautiful weather. I was on a mission to get almonds. The past few days had been a wash of unhealthy eating and inactivity, and I was resolved to cleanse myself from inside out. After having watched "The Cove," the Oscar Award-winning documentary on the senseless slaughter of dolphins in Japan, I felt resolved to try a brand of vegetarianism that minimized the consumption of even seafood. So, I needed alternate protein sources. Hence, almonds.
I set out along the familiar pavement, and went out of the west gate of the apartment complex. After a few steps, I rethought my trajectory and turned east instead. I wanted to go to Dongjiao market, where the almonds would be sold at a cheaper wholesale price. Besides, most of the time I just biked there. This would provide me with the opportunity to be distracted by the million goings-on of the streets.
Strangely enough, there was not much to provide distraction. Perhaps I was too focused on the pavement directly before my feet. Perhaps I wanted to shield myself, turn invisible, blocking out everyone and everything as tightly as I was trying to block out the persistent wind. Everything was familiar--too familiar. Perfunctory, even. Like an amorphous shadow of a past life, or the taken-for-granted details of a movie you've watched for the 100th time. Everything was expected, defined, so clear as to be unremarkable. Maybe the excitement of being here--in Beijing, home of the 2008 Olympics, the Northern Capital, the the Heart of Middle Earth and the Centre of the Universe--had been drained. I glanced at the pineapple peelers, the yam roasters, the bread fryers and deflected my steps towards them in a half-hearted pantomime of interest. I really just wanted to get some almonds.
I entered the well-known chaos of the market. Pushy drivers honking, indifferent pedestrians ambling. The trinket shops, the fake plant shops, the small electronics and the bootleg accessories. There were keychains hanging along one door. Some of them were in the shape of rabbits.
Further down, I stopped at the pet stalls. The turtles and goldfish crowded the greyish plastic tubs, filters draped over their sides almost as an afterthought. Hamsters and rabbits nestled in their paper shavings, and I saw a girl rummaging through a cardboard box no bigger than a wastebasket, flipping over puppies like dirty laundry until she found the one she wanted. I stood there in silence, in pain. I wondered how often you had come there and picked out fish--'the best ones,' you always said--to enliven the turtle tank at home. A woman asked me what I was looking for. I stared back at her, uncomprehendingly. I looked at the rows of fish bowls, hamster food, bird cages, aquarium nets. There was a knot in my chest.
I bought some almonds. I bought them at the first stand I came to. I didn't really try bargaining. The other stands I asked later all stated the same price anyway. Imported from the USA.
On the way out, I noticed a shopkeeper wrapping up a bouquet of flowers for a waiting customer. Daisies and I don't know what else--a mass of white and purple and yellow. I looked at the customer. I looked at the bouquet. I looked at the shop. The whole doorway was crowded with bunches of flowers--long-stemmed roses sold individually, clusters of blossoms arranged as centerpieces, and a confusion of unidentifiable blossoms in the darkened interior. Normally, crowded entryways daunt me, because the mere act of entering makes me feel obliged to buy something. Or at least establish rapport with the stranger who runs the shop, which is worse. Overcoming my usual fears, however, I dove into the shop, squeezed past a man who was sweeping the mud off the tiled floor, and was confronted with a wall of lilies--white ones and pink stargazer ones. I stared. I must have asked the price. Ten rmb per stem--5 rmb cheaper than the ones usually sold in the neat, civilized little flower shop next to our neat, civilized apartment complex. I asked for two stems of the stargazer ones--the same kind I bought on an impulse on a different fine, lonely afternoon. As I turned to leave, I nearly ran face-first into a rack of suspended orchid plants. Elegant, deep purple blossoms perched along a long arch, the unopened buds hanging like cartoon dewdrops at the end of each noble stem. I asked how much, thinking of the three browning orchid sprouts I had bought during the Spring Festival Temple of Earth Miao Hui, and which were slowly but surely withering away in their white plastic pot. He told me the price. I contemplated the orchids, took in their vibrancy, their delicacy. "They will stay in bloom for one month," the shopkeeper said. I left the shop.
I returned home by way of the canal. It was still pretty rough down by the wholesale market, and the transformation from uneven concrete and scummy banks to the immaculate boulevards closer to the Third Ring Road intersection seemed almost jarring. I looked for the bench that you called romantic. I don't think I found it. I sat down for awhile on a decidedly unromantic bench overlooking the new CCTV tower and the posh hotels of the Central Business District. My shoulders ached. I'd forgotten that they tend to ache when I walk for long stretches of time--I bike most places now in my impatience and quest for efficiency. The sun cast a sympathetic glow on the crescendo of approaching rush-hour traffic. I thought of you, and your goal of walking home to England from Asia. I thought of the boy from The Alchemist, and his advice to the Englishman to pay more attention to the desert, instead of reading books. Maybe I should follow his advice.