Years of Poems and Spirits

I doubt I can ever anticipate just right before each trip home. Last trip home was over a year ago in the beginning of the summer. But the experience turned out much better than I expected.

But I just don’t feel comfortable this time around—even though I started my trip in the beginning of fall, which is the best season of the year. I was overwhelmed by all the senses impressed upon me: the view, the noise, the smell and the taste. So much so that I wondered either Beijing has changed so much or I am still under jetlag. Or both.

Beijing is ugly. There are so many construction going on, the high rises are like weeds in an unattended garden. If the buildings under construction are unpleasant to look at, those newly built ones are not much better: all are grey and cold mass of steel and concrete pitched against a perpetual grey sky.

Underneath the steel “weeds” are dirt, mud and pot holes. In between car horns and hamming from constructions, up comes stinky and rotten smell from drain covers. Filling in whatever time and space left, there are endless advertisements. They are at bus stops, poles, from radio, TV, on the surface of airport conveyor belt, and seat covers in cabs.

I used to adore the city. In high school, there was once a campaign of naming scenic spots in town. I wrote a lengthy letter to the local daily arguing for and against some of the names as if they truly matter. But now, just like everything else, I felt the city is slipping away from my memory and I am becoming an irrelevant stranger.

In retrospect, the trip didn’t start well. The Air Canada flight was terrible: the plane was old and dirty, the attendants were impatient and unfriendly. Unlike previous trips, this time, the jet hovered above Beijing airport in bumpy air for at least 30 minutes before landing. Yuk. No more Air Canada from now on.