Without Regard for Time
I’m not sure how long we have been here, which day we arrived, and or which day it is. It feels like we've always been in China, and things are just the way they are. “I want to go deep,” I told my boyfriend before leaving, and sitting here now, I can most assuredly say I’m in deep. "I can't remember what our normal life was like," says James. We have passed into an alternate world, without question.
My body is in a considerable amount of pain. The first few days we walked over 40 miles around the city. Yesterday we hiked 6 miles on the chang cheng, or Long Wall, as it is called. And the last three days the Air Quality Index has been measured with the “gas mask” emoji, which, let me tell you, is no good thing.
We could have walked less, yes, but with an overzealous boyfriend, and my own hunger to know everything, our bodies were sacrificed long ago. Falling onto any horizontal surface the moment it becomes available, we throb. My calves, his hips, our backs, our knees, blisters on my feet, aches in his heels. To say nothing of the delusions.
The city is extensive. It can take hours (by foot, or taxi, or subway) to cross. The amount of skyscrapers and otherwise massively imposing buildings (well beyond whatever you just envisioned) is not quantifiable. There is a thoroughfare lined with tall, wide, and heavy buildings for miles. One after the other after the other, it’s hard to imagine them each filled with enough people to be necessary, but there they stand.
Beijing, bizarrely, is calmer than one expects for a city of 22 million. In stark contrast to the places I would contrast it with (New York and Tokyo), people do not seem stressed. In fact, they seem relaxed. They do not seem hurried. Their gait is intentional but not rushed. There isn’t a lot of noise, an occasional honk or a shouted greeting, but the only unpleasant noises come from the sound systems in bakeries that relentless welcome you inside.
There are many young children, or, “munchkins” as I like to call them. If they’re of walking age, they’re running. Otherwise their sweet, round, and plump little faces look out from their strollers, usually holding on to the rail for stability as the visual stimulants come from every direction.
No matter the age, your smile is returned, but you’re otherwise left unbothered and largely ignored, which is very lovely. Virtually no one speaks English (why would they?) and communication is difficult, at best.
By the end of the Ming Dynasty (considered one of the greatest examples in history of a stable, functional society) in 1644, the population of the state was 160,000,000. I believe the ease of Beijing stems from the innate knowledge that it’s not going anywhere.
If you’re craving a bit of a rush, a feeling as though not everything is quite sane, or just in general want to feel slightly nauseous, head to the Beijing Railway Station. There are three main stations, one named South, one named West, and one just as it is above. That one will give you the fear, for sure, though I will still choose it over the underground hell of Penn Station any day.
If you stand in the main square of the BRS, there are people milling in every direction. Of course this isn’t unusual for a vibrant transportation hub, but watching the people greet each other, watching the people buy their vacuumed sealed full roast duck, and taking in the smells, the noise, the signage, and the energy that is unlike the rest of the city, your body goes into sensory overload. I imagine the people coming and going on days-long train journeys through the country. Though Beijing is its capital, China stretches for thousands of miles in every direction where “towns” consist of millions. There is no possible way to define such a place.
On the fourth day, the pollution took residence in my throat. At first it was a scratch, but soon developed into a full on coating, thick and rough, so now it feels like I can only swallow through a wire-thin straw. There’s a cough that doesn’t offer any relief, but is necessary just the same. There is a phlegm that tastes different than normal, but I realize it’s not my own sickness but that of the air I’m breathing in.
Two nights ago we stood in a great hall, “Waiting Room 1", for our train east to the sea. Though the hall was several acres wide, it was packed to the point of being squeezed. My throat had closed, my body ached and sweated, and my head throbbed as we slowly, collectively moved in some fashion that may be described as forward. There, two conductors punched each individual ticket by hand, and there, in front of me, lay the longest train I had ever seen. Car after car in each direction - I actually couldn’t see either end.
So much more to come x