don't believe the perfume and jewellery advertisments, or the poets and philosophers, for that matter. maybe the bible, and therefore saint augustine's concept of eternity as timeless existence - but that's a different story altogether, you think?
eternity, really, is sitting on a hard bench for three that's covered with a thin layer of cloth and made with a recline of barely more than 45 degrees, on an overnight train whose number plate begins with 'T' for 特快 (te4 kuai4) or extra fast, yet slows to a crawl for long, endless stretches of railway track with the air-conditioning turned off in a bid to save fuel.
it is being unable to fall asleep sitting on that bench in a hot and stuffy carriage on that train at two in the morning after an entire day of sight-seeing, having to listen to toddlers yelling for respite and your fellow passengers chattering away because they're also unable to fall asleep. it is standing in line for the toilet beside people curled up and sleeping on the floor of the train on sheets of newspaper whose headlines you can still read, only to find out when the train attendant finally walks by again that the sign above the lock is red and reads 有人 (you3 ren2), occupied, because it is spoilt: there is only one toilet for three carriages worth of people with 硬座 (ying4 zuo4), hard-sitting tickets, and there are men squatting directly outside it smoking.
it is the smell of cigarette smoke which cannot dissipate, from cigarettes being smoked in the cramped space of the carriage connectors, and it is the feet in black socks of a fat man, the kind you find at sleazy ktv bars - curly, wiry hair, wearing a white polo shirt tucked in over a huge belly, trousers held up by a belt with a large silver buckle, sports jacket hung on a hook next to the window - sticking a little too far out into the aisle which separates your seat from his.
but eternity is also declining to visit 4 of the 7 museums scheduled by the travel agency, and exploring the area alone while waiting for tours of those museums to finish: walking on a muddy track running through the middle of a farming village, looking at people chopping firewood and washing clothes by hand, sitting in groups outside houses knitting, chatting, playing with their children and grandchildren. buying a bunch of sweet bananas and a stick of pineapple, tasting bread with an odd, olive-vinegar spread spread between huge white layers of it.
it is listening to an 阿姨 complain in heavily-accented chinese about a naughty child whilst you nod and make sympathetic noises although you don't understand a word of what she's saying, and it is watching another one making delicate paper cut-outs in red paper, demonstrating a little to you how it's done. it is catching your bus driver mopping the floor of your bus, not squatting by the road with other bus drivers and smoking - it is sitting on damp grass outside the final museum, amongst bits of melon seed shells and cigarette butts (and other peoples' spit as well, probably, but grass is grass) reading psalm 103 in paul's chinese bible, occasionally looking up into the sky.
and finally, it is a hot bowl of porridge cooked with some unidentifiable, delicious grain, called 小细米汤 (xiao3 xi4 mi3 tang1), eaten with the best potato and carrot shreds and beansprouts i've had so far in china, served by a smiley mother-and-daughter pair in an alley on a cold sunday morning in the 西安 (xi1 an1) spring.
***
xi'an was pretty, and the farmers there looked happy. there was contentment in their eyes, happiness with their simple, comfortable lives. more like the peasants of the sing to the dawn ilk. the fields were green and yellow where flowers used for making oil grew, well-tended and neat, beyond which houses with plain brick walls stood in orderly rows. i think people in clean places are just happier, and 秦始皇 (qin2 shi3 huang2) did leave behind a cash cow for his descendants to milk. having such an enormous ego had its uses, i suppose.
since the terracotta warriors are supposedly the eighth wonder of the world, i will post some pictures once shangren uploads them on facebook. which might be quite some time more, since he's still sleeping off the eleven hour train ride all of us endured. stay tuned.
***
jinni and i spent some time the other day discussing possible causes of my food poisoning. as i listed off the street food i'd eaten, we decided that it couldn't have been the 臭豆腐 (chou4 dou4 fu4) even though i ate it twice on two consecutive days. besides, i make it a point to eat one portion at almost every chou doufu stall i come across only because jon loves it and he's not here with me. such an act of devotion couldn't have such horrific results, could it?
i tell you, it was that piece of barbecued chicken which looked like it'd been lying out for some time. i was too lazy that day to cook any meat.
eternity, really, is sitting on a hard bench for three that's covered with a thin layer of cloth and made with a recline of barely more than 45 degrees, on an overnight train whose number plate begins with 'T' for 特快 (te4 kuai4) or extra fast, yet slows to a crawl for long, endless stretches of railway track with the air-conditioning turned off in a bid to save fuel.
it is being unable to fall asleep sitting on that bench in a hot and stuffy carriage on that train at two in the morning after an entire day of sight-seeing, having to listen to toddlers yelling for respite and your fellow passengers chattering away because they're also unable to fall asleep. it is standing in line for the toilet beside people curled up and sleeping on the floor of the train on sheets of newspaper whose headlines you can still read, only to find out when the train attendant finally walks by again that the sign above the lock is red and reads 有人 (you3 ren2), occupied, because it is spoilt: there is only one toilet for three carriages worth of people with 硬座 (ying4 zuo4), hard-sitting tickets, and there are men squatting directly outside it smoking.
it is the smell of cigarette smoke which cannot dissipate, from cigarettes being smoked in the cramped space of the carriage connectors, and it is the feet in black socks of a fat man, the kind you find at sleazy ktv bars - curly, wiry hair, wearing a white polo shirt tucked in over a huge belly, trousers held up by a belt with a large silver buckle, sports jacket hung on a hook next to the window - sticking a little too far out into the aisle which separates your seat from his.
but eternity is also declining to visit 4 of the 7 museums scheduled by the travel agency, and exploring the area alone while waiting for tours of those museums to finish: walking on a muddy track running through the middle of a farming village, looking at people chopping firewood and washing clothes by hand, sitting in groups outside houses knitting, chatting, playing with their children and grandchildren. buying a bunch of sweet bananas and a stick of pineapple, tasting bread with an odd, olive-vinegar spread spread between huge white layers of it.
it is listening to an 阿姨 complain in heavily-accented chinese about a naughty child whilst you nod and make sympathetic noises although you don't understand a word of what she's saying, and it is watching another one making delicate paper cut-outs in red paper, demonstrating a little to you how it's done. it is catching your bus driver mopping the floor of your bus, not squatting by the road with other bus drivers and smoking - it is sitting on damp grass outside the final museum, amongst bits of melon seed shells and cigarette butts (and other peoples' spit as well, probably, but grass is grass) reading psalm 103 in paul's chinese bible, occasionally looking up into the sky.
and finally, it is a hot bowl of porridge cooked with some unidentifiable, delicious grain, called 小细米汤 (xiao3 xi4 mi3 tang1), eaten with the best potato and carrot shreds and beansprouts i've had so far in china, served by a smiley mother-and-daughter pair in an alley on a cold sunday morning in the 西安 (xi1 an1) spring.
***
xi'an was pretty, and the farmers there looked happy. there was contentment in their eyes, happiness with their simple, comfortable lives. more like the peasants of the sing to the dawn ilk. the fields were green and yellow where flowers used for making oil grew, well-tended and neat, beyond which houses with plain brick walls stood in orderly rows. i think people in clean places are just happier, and 秦始皇 (qin2 shi3 huang2) did leave behind a cash cow for his descendants to milk. having such an enormous ego had its uses, i suppose.
since the terracotta warriors are supposedly the eighth wonder of the world, i will post some pictures once shangren uploads them on facebook. which might be quite some time more, since he's still sleeping off the eleven hour train ride all of us endured. stay tuned.
***
jinni and i spent some time the other day discussing possible causes of my food poisoning. as i listed off the street food i'd eaten, we decided that it couldn't have been the 臭豆腐 (chou4 dou4 fu4) even though i ate it twice on two consecutive days. besides, i make it a point to eat one portion at almost every chou doufu stall i come across only because jon loves it and he's not here with me. such an act of devotion couldn't have such horrific results, could it?
i tell you, it was that piece of barbecued chicken which looked like it'd been lying out for some time. i was too lazy that day to cook any meat.
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