Shanghai: Memoir, 2007

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Small alleys intersects one another; with small shops lined along. The length of the line limited by tiny stairs, flooded by legs trying to precede each other. This long corridor only  sometimes touches the free air, with ornamental chocolate-coloured roofs on both sides, and calligraphic-painted wood planks. In the end, the crossing intersection interposed each other labyrinth-like   grooved, led this sea-flooded people into other crossing or doors toward the street.

Wonder which Daedalus created this temple’s garden, be such that it’s thread is now so dense – loaded by people. Here, all the products meet the buyers: crafts and genuine or fake antiques, souvenirs and beautiful trinkets, calligraphic art to detailed paintings inside 7 cm jars. Mounted food to candies and cotton candy, traditional medicine to decades-old tea, fabric shoes to shiny leather belts, not to mention the sale winter clothes and boutique-made clothes on fixed price. 

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and condensed cream of sweet cinnamon arising from the hands of a Starbucks barista from the middle of the market; mixed with melting caramel and candies in the palm of a peddler, smell of the roasted chicken and cheeseburger from McDonalds kitchen, and crab broth aroma mixed with pork from xiao lung bao tiny hole. In front of the tavern, hundreds people lined up waiting their turn to pick up their dozens xiao lung bao orders.  

All men speak all languages: Mandarin, Cantonese, Gongfu, Japanese, Korean, Indian, Thai and Malay; so far as to English, French, German, Dutch, Italian or Spanish. One haggling, other being haggled. One calling, other answering. Voices of the craftsmen who worked at various heights complete the madness of sounds. Not to mention the bicycle bells and car horns from the street outside the complex. Perhaps that’s why they say any tourist should go to this particular Shanghai’s market.   

Shanghai, 2007

Beijing: Memoir, 2007

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Landed average fields, with pavements or vegetation structured in such a way. The willows lined up on the streets, adjoined side by side with the height pole pedestal lighting and continuous electrical poles. Springs leaf buds overwritten by the shiny silvery dew, only supported by the elegance of the wind; swaying lightly over it’s new shoots. Down in the left-opened sandy soil, lying some cigarette butts under the willows, waiting for the scavenger who comes every morning.

City Park flooded by plum flowers and rows of toddler Bao Babs, with hands hanging  loomed as an inverted sticking roots down the earth. Windows disguised by the grey-white mist, where sometimes captured- in frame- moms looks down to the street as they hung the clothes; while also chatting with others on above or lower level. 

Dispersed are the scent of the earth, mixed with a light aroma of rose tea and dark concentrated broth smoke, thick condensed melting fat, and  the delicate aroma of steamed bread. At the end of the wave of these smell, meet the pungent carbide and the newly signed gasoline vapour, stinky putrid  river and sewer dashed niff of final disposal.

A scavenger smoothly moves on the edge of the road with a claw in his right hand and steering wheel in his left, riding a small bike with a cart behind.  Next to him, an old man on the sidewalk wearing trousers made of old sacks, decades- old leather shoes with tangled rope wet with puddles, a long-sleeved blue shirt with dark blue jacket, a cap that facing backwards with earmuff and gloves soggy wet of tonight’s rain. His slant eye tail off even more due to the wrinkles in his forehead and a rarely warm smile;  result of his brief conversation with a tourist at the crossroad.

In front of them, dozens of cars pass every minute; a relaxed or hurry one, public and private vehicles, with locals or tourists inside of them. Wheels and tires passed over the glossy black asphalt, wet by rain and a bit vague in the dust that fell overnight. Standing at many crossroads, large columns holding pedestrian bridges, and its interchange to each pedestal body. 

At the end of the street lined up those who waiting for taxi or buses, waiting to be picked up or for crossing the red light. Some with high boots, long trousers and long-sleeved shirt, jacket or long coat strongly tied to survived the cold. A big book or a folder in the left hand, a handbag or a backpack hanging in the right, completed with a cup of coffee, tea, or even only hot water with hint of puffed white-smoke. Some others dressed in their own style, staring dreamily into different directions, playing with their own wishful thinking that floating and hovering apart from their body.

   

People of all these sizes, types and classes might meet later in the afternoon in a building or another; climbing the same marble staircases, or holding the same metal railings. Stepping on the same elevator, or breathing the same air conditioned atmosphere; while the time keep on strolling, seemed as chasing one another.

Here, people may forever ask; what are they doing today.

Here, the plants may always wonder, how long will that sun survive this time.

Here, the roads and asphalt may ask, when will the rain come again.

Here, the buildings may forever wonder; keep asking and joking one another.

Beijing, 2007

Lourdes, End of the Year

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Empty. The almost dark grey sky are slightly washed by the cumulus arcs; and the watery air are yet arid feel. Lonely branches sticking out and challenge the sky along the pedestal, gave their nod last month to the runaway beavers. A thermometer started to freeze, hanging on the corner of a restaurant wall next to the train station. In front of it, there’s the owner prepares to go home for the umpteenth time.

The greenish brown pants tightly filled by layered socks and long johns. In the end, a pair of rubber-soled leather boots thinning eroded by the asphalt and last week – snow. A candle nut colored leather jacket with high collar that she wear definitely not just to cover her body, with a bushy scarf with similar color which hid half of the layering fur knitted to the collar; up to her chin. Her hindered gesture confirming the density of clothes she wore under her jacket. Gloves  and a knitted skullcaps completed her costume today; leaving only her face and a little bit of hair on the forehead get in touch freely with the freezing cold. Her smoky breath is like the breezy-blown cigarette smoke. With a wave to a kiosk owner inside the station, she stepped onto the declining path.

The pedestal under his feet damp by the wet air, washed out traces of the afternoon busy city. The fragrant of wooden branches sticking along the way emanates from the dripping dew. That very fragrant which usually being swallowed by hundreds scent of perfume and aroma of millions pilgrims, are now freely lunge –  carried within the breeze and hovering on the lonely air. Anyone could sense the solitude of the Pyrenees and the scent of snow up there, only by sank into the smoky breathe in every corner of this street. On the gaps of that solemn aromas, comes the scent of savory grilled salmon and the light breadcrumbs crawling out from a restaurant of the hotel – whose sign becomes an accent over the emptiness.  Sometimes appear those who walk piercing the wind and the cold weather, who enter the lobby to warm up their hands – or those who come in search for one bowl of hot soup.

In some heated rooms, they serve a set menu or ala carte for the hungry and freezing pilgrims. Small groups from other part of the globe with their own guide and priests, those who come in search of solitude and contemplate, those in desperation or put their hope onto the faith; or those amazed by the solitary of this land towards Christmas.

Clinking sounds of the forks and knives collides the dishes, silver spoons swirling on ceramic cups, singing constant tweeter. Over which,  the light chattering around the tables adding the swaying bass. Those who laugh and jokes on stories in the bus this noon, an old man teasing his wife after decades of tasteless marriage, those with comments on a glass of sauvignon blanc in hand, or those who choose the weather and the cold breeze as a theme accompanying the meals. Along with it, the waiters which always understaffed quickly walk from table to table.  Sometimes with potage crème de champignons on both hands, sometimes with canard a l’orange on the left and gratin de saumon au vin blanc on the right. Across the room, his fellow co-worker is pouring the cabernet sauvignon for a middle-aged couple who are busy with entrecote pieces on their plates. All around the bar, some white-haired women tell stories and joking to each other, with canes or wheelchair next to the sofa and a big glass of beer or a cup of hot chocolate on their table.

Outside, the night falls, no moon, the doors tightly locked, and streets missing the vehicle. White granules fall layering the elegant Pyrenees, waiting for the sun. While the cave’s cold stones remained firmly in place, series of luxuriant-leaves ivy  enjoying the winter, and the flow of the holy water intoning a litany to The Great Owner.

Barcelona, January 2011