She meows her head off, a signal that she’s screaming for attention, at least that’s what I assume, being a cat owner for six years.But her voice pierces my brain if I pick her up and run my fingers along the top of her head.Alright, alright, I let go of her. And there she is, doing the same old trick again, meow meow meowing, poking her head around the corner and seemingly screaming at me just so she can get attention.Well, she gets it. I grab the broom from the kitchen and chase after her. She runs a few steps and turns back to see if I’m following her or just going through the motions. If the latter is the case, she meows all over again.After this episode, she subdues, and I resume my reading at the desk nestled in the living room corner.She’s my cat and her name is Bubble.We first met back in June 2017 at the security guard’s box at a half-abandoned factory in the middle of Baiyun District, Guangzhou. She was only a couple of weeks old and just slightly larger than my hand.Her fur was black and brown, and her nose and mouth were protruded from a triangular patch of white fur. The fur on her feet was also white, giving the impression that she was wearing white socks. Hence, I sometimes still call her ‘white socks’ as she marches toward me seeking attention.Upon closer observation, her fur was a safe haven for a flea army. And as soon as we took her and her brother, an orange ginger cat, home, the war of removing and killing fleas started lasting a couple of weeks until they were old enough, at least for Bubble, to be submerged in water, forcing the bloodsuckers to the top of her head, for which we had applied flea powder. The shock of the hairdryer, however, resulted in blood being drawn from my husband’s hand.As if she were embarrassed by her flea situation or perhaps she was simply shy in the first week at her new home, she spent most of the day time under the only sofa in our tiny apartment, or as was more common, I would find her dozing off in my woolen slipper, curled into a ball. It didn’t take them long to settle into their new surroundings though. Instead of hiding away in my slipper, they singled out my husband’s foot as their new siesta spot, her tiny paws resting on my husband’s toes, forcing him to sit motionless for extended periods of time. By the time she was confident enough to stretch out on the sofa, she had also confidently claimed my desk as her new territory. After strolling back and forth on the desktop, she sat made the book I was reading at home, her front legs stretching out, blocking most of the content, as she lay her head down on my hand that kept the book open.Sighing and shaking my head, I stroked her head until she purred contently.Unlike her brother Orange who begged at the dinner table for meat every day, her appetite was limited to, as it still is today, cat food and the occasional bread or cookie crumb. She eats as if she were a dainty princess, taking one tiny bite at a time and taking an inordinate amount of time just to consume one thumbnail portion of bread or cookie, after which, consuming only three quarters of the tidbit, finds a place to lie down as if the whole procedure exhausts her. “Too dainty!” I remark every time I spot her eating, “I don’t think she’d survive long outside fending for herself, and she certainly would have made a lousy factor rat-catching cat, no doubt, and would have only been kept alive by the hunting instinct her meat-eating brother seems very much to be in touch with. As she turned into a teenager, her true felinity started unveiling itself. By this time, she was a frequent visitor to my desk and would doze off there as long as I worked. Sometimes I would tease her by calling her name. ‘Bubble’, I mouthed. ‘Meow!’ immediately came her response, her ears alert while her eyes still shut. Not a stupid cat by a long mile. About 11 months after taking her home, she popped out four kittens and for a year or so, she abandoned me and focused her attention on her babies. My husband carved a cat house out of cardboard and placed it on the bottom shelf of my bookcase to keep the other two male cats from prying into her tribe.One year into her motherhood, the kitten we kept, Bobbie, was still sucking milk, if there was any, from Bubble, a few times a day. This lengthy breastfeeding period surprised me, as I would never have thought a cat would have taken such a matriarchal attitude towards what was now, in human years, a 7 year old Bobbie, and when laid out front paws to tail, was longer than her mother. Animal ‘baby care’ took on new meaning. Even now, years later, she still jumps to attention whenever her daughter, Bobbie, lets out a high-pitch shriek and runs over to supervise the scene with a concerned look. Bobbie, being the youngest of the tribe, is indulged in the spotlight and as a result, she remains a kitten, both physically and psychologically and sometimes I wonder if it’s caused by the prolonged milk-feeding period Bubble indulged her with. An expert in comfort-seeking, Bubble is always found at the cushiest spots in the apartment: the foot stand in front of the electric heater on cold winter days, a cushion by the living room window offering a fantastic tree view in spring, a box on top of the wardrobe when she refuses to be bothered, and a flannel blanket in the bedroom.Just when I feel she’s totally lost her interest in me, I find her waiting at the glass partition door by the entrance hall whenever I come back home. “Meow~~,” she greets, as if expressing her excitement in seeing me after ten or so hours. These days, however, every moment she seems to be swinging between two modes: the angel mode or the devil mode. As we both venture into middle age, our temper shortens, and our communication channel narrows into stroking and chasing after each other. When I sit at my desk reading or working, she strolls over and lets out a few meows before I motion her to sit on my lap where she’ll remain purring away. An hour later, I may find myself chasing after her with a broom when she meows her head off for no particular reason and out of desperation, she dives into the hole between two cushy couches and waits patiently there until I’ve put away the broom. Minutes later, she reappears from underneath the sofa with a look that the war between us is a thing of the past. She nears the window by my desk and gazes at the tree view, front legs dangling at the side of the cushion. 

As someone from Sichuan, I had of course heard about Lijiang since I was a kid, not just because of its location in the adjacent province, Yunnan, but because it also carries the distinction of being one of China’s renowned ancient towns. My impression and understanding of Lijiang was, however, just that, an ancient town, not different from any other of the multitude of ancient towns that dot China: always packed with tourists and an endless array of souvenir shops. My husband, on the other hand, had been wanting to visit Lijiang for years (a long time!). Lijiang, a picture-perfect town located in the northwest wing of the butterfly-shaped Yunnan Province, was in the glory days of the Silk Road, a trading town on the southern branch of this ancient tea road, a welcome respite indeed for the travellers passing through. Our boutique hotel owner coincidentally called as soon as we landed on the back seat of the taxi. “Please wait at the south entrance, … I’ll come to pick you up. See you soon.” We soon realized that the Old Town is closed to all vehicular traffic, including silent-killer scooters. The owner greeted us with smiles and helped carry my bag as we zigzagged for ten minutes through the cobble-stone alleys fronted with a variety of tourist, ethnic food, and jewelry shops, restaurants, mini hair-braiding salons, and a variety of tea stands and stores, as my husband concernedly pulled the suitcase behind with the rumble of cobble-stones menacing the suitcase wheels. We were welcomed with fresh tea at the front desk, or rather what appeared to be the owner’s favorite room, tastefully decorated with old dark walnut brown furniture and tea paraphernalia, complete with a gongfu ‘cha’ table, all the while enclosed by open Chinese style windows that faced onto the tiny but cozy courtyard. “Welcome!” bellowed his mother in a smiley cheerful voice. The owner himself had travelled to Lijiang a few years back and became enamored with the place. He sold his apartment in Shenzhen, packed up the family, and bought the wooden structure, converting it into small courtyard style boutique hotel. Located in a narrow alleyway off one of the main alley arteries and nestled in tranquility, it exuded a classical simplicity. From our court-yard facing room window, we rested on the light green cushioned sofa, looked upon the black-tiled roofs of the eastern part of the town, and contentedly viewed a deep blue sky overhead with only a few puffy white clouds threatening something, but no matter, as the day before, we were suffering the gloom of grey that hung in Chengdu. As we talked, sipping green tea, we turned our attention to observing the room and its simple yet traditional ambience, the bed complete with net curtains fit for a Qing empress. We made a move after a brief rest, and wandered the old town. The Cobblestone lanes, kept clean and swept, seemed to meander as they pleased, perhaps trying to out do the stream that found itself flowing through the middle of the town. The labyrinth of alleys, were well lit, others just by the glow of lights emanating from a bar, restaurant, novelty shop, or inn, were alive with mostly young people. This town seemed to cater to young couples instead of families and seniors. Some alleys were remarkably quiet, and even along the bubbling meandering stream, ideal for couples to romance, the small arched bridge, where we took turns taking photos of each other, saw few of the tourists that plied the main alleys higher up. The old town still has a proper open-air market, with people from nearby villages selling their local spices, vegetables, tea, tobacco, honey, and general goods. Some of the women traders, dressed in their colorful traditional garb, seemed more inclined to gossip than trade, and for an instance, it felt like going back in time. Indeed, time behaves differently here, purposefully slowed down by the inhabitants, unintentionally by the geography of the location, and through necessity of those who depend on the town for a livelihood. The sun began to take refuge behind Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, yet cast a shadowy golden glow on the market we sauntered around, my husband breaking to take a photo of both the mountain and the golden globe it partially covered, minority women in the foreground, with smoke from the snack vendors giving the air a gentle misting. The ancient town was lit up. The roofs, outlined by the warm yellowish glow of lights, created a type of five-star resort atmosphere, encouraging a cozy peacefulness, despite the crowds (mostly young couples). In the old town’s market square, visitors snaked around in a dancing line, following the main Naxi dancers as they shuffled to and thro, bending, clapping, spinning, and chanting. In the morning, the ideal time to appreciate the town’s architecture sans people, saw my husband hunting for coffee and me hunting for a glimpse of Jade Dragon Snow mountain. Most vendors don’t get going till 10 or 11am, indicating the laid back nature of the town. We followed the clear-water stream that led back to the market square, from which we realized the town had a hill within it’s confines. The ascent was made all the more demanding by the oversized roughly quarried stone stairs, but the climb rewarded us with a panoramic view of both the entire ancient town and the modern town, and on a clear day, distant hills that suggest a mountain range, but nothing like the goliath that solitary stands alone guarding the town. Water is the soul of this town. The Black Dragon Pool feeds glacial waters into the many streams that flow through courtyards and past houses in a southerly direction. The water, full of coy and other fish guided us to the pool on the north edge of the town, adjacent to Elephant mountain, Jade Dragon’s much smaller companion. From a distance, on top of another ridge before passing through a large valley plain on our way to Lijiang, we had glimpsed YuLong XueShan (Jade Dragon Snow Mountain), but when entering Lijiang, all 5,596 meters of the mountain demanded to be seen, no matter from which direction one enters the town. Even in December though, while the snowy peaks of Jade Dragon look down on the town, the surrounding climate is mild and spring-like, making it ideal for alpine meadows, and within Lijiang itself, flowers seem at home anytime of the year to welcome visitors, with their vibrancy and fragrance. Lijiang isn’t just another ancient town, rather it's a way of life for many, attracting the unsuspecting with its charm and tranquility, coaxing them into a new way of life. No wonder our hotel owner made the decision to stay. 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Panzhihua, laying at the southernmost corner of Sichuan province, connects the southwest edge of Sichuan and the northwest wing of the butterfly-shaped Yunnan province. Taking a bus journey can be a rewarding way of discovering this part of the country as the road to Lijiang from Panzhihua traverses what we had heard is a magical landscape, thus we opted for going this route by coach. From the geography books of my schooldays years back, the descriptions and the photographs of this part of China didn’t impress, but the bus journey, a sort of geological class on wheels, amazed. We settled ourselves down at the back of the unpacked bus, preparing ourselves for what we feared would be a hell-bound cliff-riding experience winding through the mountainous road. Leaving behind Panzhihua and the smokestacks, the coach ran along the curvature of the Jinshajiang river, before crossing over a bridge to enter onto the Lijiang-Panzhihua road. Forty-five minutes out of the city, and climbing the first of many hills, the trees went from Acacias to pines and then finally into mango territory, with billboards and huge plastic signs in the shape of mangos denoting the fruit’s orchards. The bus motioned to a stop at the Sichuan-Yunnan border, where the cars were being sprayed to stop the spread of African Swine Fever, and the police were checking for….well, just checking. A police officer came on the bus to inspect the few passengers’ ID cards. He walked to the back and eyed my husband up, monotonously asking me “You came from where?” “Chengdu.” “Where are you heading to?” “Lijiang.” “For what?” “For traveling.” “OK.” That was easy for me. When my husband handed him his passport, it took him a good two minutes to flip through the pages and ‘read’ the visa stamps on every page. Then he took the passport back to one of his colleagues comfortably sitting in a deck chair. After taking several photos of the passport pages, the passport was finally returned. On our way again we officially entered Yunnan province. The road zigzagged along the rugged baseline of the foothills that rise up from the deep gorges. New life is being injected into these ancient mountainous regions as the foundations and towering cement pylons of the elevated expressway are being laid, with many sections already completed, which when open will shorten the travel time from Panzhihua to Lijiang from 6 hours to roughly 2 hours. The sound of the motor died away and the bus stopped for a quick lunch at a roadside mom-and-pop restaurant. The dark-skinned driver was swapping information with the old couple in a dialect that I could barely catch. Then I realized they might be communicating in minority Yuan-Sichuan-dialect. “Menu, please.” The husband waved away my question and pointed at the freshly-prepared food near the kitchen. For 25 yuan, we could choose from 3 dishes as much as we wanted. We settled down at a tiny table on the balcony and worked our way through the steaming fresh ubiquitous Chinese bus-stop dishes. Glancing at the bridge construction site facing our balcony, I started wondering if this couple will lose their small business once the highway is completed. The road descended through another narrow gorge as it penetrated through the foothills. On the other side of the gorge near the bottom of these foothills, caves were intermittingly cut into the slate faces of what we were now coining the ‘miniature Himalayas’. What looked like a disused railway that belonged to a bygone era lay below the caves. Some of these caves tantalizingly still had some form of gate, making one wonder just how long and deep these caves go, and what, if anything, were in them. The bus was once again crawling up a winding stretch of the highway through the mountains. Dilapidated houses were perched on any patches of level terrace available but after passing a few, we quickly realized that there were no inhabitants. It was the second ghost town we had gone through, though this one was significantly larger and with larger buildings. Finding a living in bigger towns nearby seemed a smarter option than staying behind in this only-accessible-by-a-lengthy-bus-journey geographically isolated and seemingly sterile land. “Don’t look down, don’t look down” my husband tried to smooth my panic while the bus carefully staggered upwards to the upland plateau. Despite my acrophobia, I stole glimpse of the captivating scenery down below. At the bottom of the canyon, emerged a short stretch of jade-blue river supplied by glaciated melt water, while on the horizon stood glacial, snow-capped peaks. Yu Long Xue Shan (Jade Dragon Snow Mountain)! From the summit the bus skillfully descended through a continual S-shaped road leading down to a plain. A vast swath of villages nestling among foothills came into view. This could be a retreater’s dream to lead a relaxing, laid-back lifestyle at this very spot. A dense maze of one and two-floor houses stretched into the distance under the open sky. The rest of the road trip was on the flat plateau, so I drifted off. Still in my dreams, “honey, we’re here.” I awoke to find us already at our destination – Lijiang, and immediately spied the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain as we turned into the bus station. Relieved to arrive in one piece, and relieved to relieve ourselves, we anticipated the next day’s adventures within the ancient town of Lijiang, a place both of us, especially my husband, had been wanting to visit for years. It was surely not to disappoint.

The first time I heard the name “Panzhihua”, it was from the Sichuan Weather Forecast. Having the word ‘Hua’ (flower) in a city name sounded cool and impressive and preceded to picture this city carpeted with ‘Panzhihua’ flowers. Our newly refurbished dark army green 1960’s sleeper train from Chengdu slid into the Panzhihua station after a night’s journey on the over 600-kilometer track. Exiting from our carriage, we were immediately welcomed by the acrid stench of coal, our nostril passages instinctively narrowing to prevent the fumes from entering. We came here to take a bus to Lijiang, a city lying in the northwest mountainous region of Yunnan province. We called a Didi driver and very soon were heading towards the long-distance bus terminal, which, I assumed would take about 20 minutes. As the car sped along the riverside, I gazed at the city stretching along the Jinsha River and the bare, seemingly infertile foothills that limit the expansion of the city. Every few minutes, tall smokestacks puffing out huge quantities of greyish smoke and massive cooling towers belting out thick plumes of white steam lay on the other side of the river. That it was a steel and iron-producing town became abundantly clear. Dust-coated cars were jammed on the other side of the road. I wondered where all these cars were coming from, albeit it was morning rush hour but the city, wherever it lay, was not nearly as apparent as the industry that drives this place. The river, frequently punctuated by arched iron bridges, looked surprisingly clean with its aqua blue waters shimmering in the morning sunlight, though a thin greyish haze hung over the city. It was midwinter. A beautiful day dawned and yawned as the sun climbed in the chilly air, making the light haze ever more visible, but, so our driver explained, by midday the sun’s rays would produce a sub-tropical heat. The city enjoys long hours of sunshine, providing the best conditions for fruits such as mangos and loquat. The drive to the bus terminal, situated on the high bank of the river, turned out to be twice as long as I had first assumed, but the trip still felt like 20 minutes as our driver had affably chatted away. Despite living in a city where people’s lifespans were diminished by the industry that make this city, he seemed happy. And uncharacteristically, the bus ticket clerk also seemed happy to do her job, in fact she was the most pleasant and happy ticket clerk I’ve ever dealt with. These two people, plus our bus driver, were a stark reminder that not just industry but also people are what make a city either a happy place to visit or a miserable experience. We boarded the bus and sat back in our seats preparing to witness the magical and majestic beauty of the Himalayan foothills during our seven hour pilgrimage to Lijiang, where I hoped to catch my first glimpse of a real snow covered mountain, the famed Jade Dragon Mountain.

Part 1“Macao used to be quaint.”“It’s a great place for photographing.”“It has some great food.”That’s what my fiancé told me before our one-day Macao trip. We took a train from Guangzhou to Zhuhai Gongbei Station, where we were to cross the border. Zhuhai’s Gongbei Station and the northern tip of Macao are side by side. We followed the streams of people, walked along the maze-like passageways and after 20 minutes, we were in Macao. “Well, honey, you’re out of the Mainland again. Come here, let’s take a picture of you with that customs building in the background.”My fiancé, after shooting me, stretched out his hand and quietly bellowed “welcome to Macao!”Walking five minutes from the customs building, we found ourselves in an old, busy street. People—people everywhere, people walking towards different destinations, people wearing various expressions, people just standing looking lost. We stood in front of the map post trying to find the best route.Our first stop was the center of town. As our packed bus was sailing along the streets, I saw narrow bustling alleyways, old buildings, and the place seemed to be buzzing with people. The old part of the city is, for the most part, no different than from a gigantic Chinese village on the edge of a major Chinese city made up from densely packed 4-story rectangular brick-made buildings covered in ceramic swimming pool tiles. Yet, with a closer look at the signage that adorns the streets, you will notice something that distinguishes Macao from other Chinese cities, two languages on almost all signs, Portuguese and Chinese, though with the exception of the neon signs flashing “massage”.We got off the bus near the central square, one of the major attractions of the city. The architecture style in the square is that of a pastille colored Greco-Roman look. For an instant I thought I was actually walking in Rome—though I’ve never been. Everywhere tourists were taking pictures.We snaked our way to the ruins of St. Paul’s through what seemed like thousands of people. Being stuck in the moving crowds, there’s nothing much I could see except for people’s backs due to my being vertically challenged. “Taste our ice-cream, the best in Macao”, “come try a piece of our barbeque beef”, “make-up on sale” struck my ears along with the plastic hand clapping that emanated from the rows of stores. My fiancé pulled me along like a 10-year-old child. We reached the bottom of cathedral’s façade’s steps.​We walked in the crowds for a few more minutes, I looked up and there it was, the Ruins of St Paul’s. “Oh, wow!” I murmured to myself in amazement. My first and only impression of Macao, before coming, was the very image of the Ruins of St. Paul’s that I'd seen from books, which now lay before me. It was like a picture coming alive.​We didn’t stay there for too long, wanting to escape from the picture-taking thrones that came and went, which constantly reminded me of Macao’s moth-to-a-flame attraction, the flame most likely being gambling, cheap international cosmetics, and, well, Macao for being Macao.​​Part 2​Coloane Island is a beautiful getaway destination tucked away in the south of Macao.The bus ride from the bustling town center to the island was about an hour. After getting off we returned to the round-a-bout from when we had just passed, only to be delighted by the small garden and exited from an iron arch door that lent itself as a trellis for the vibrant flowers and fauna. For us, this island was the main reason for our excursion to Macao.What makes this island so attractive?There is no schedule, no hustle-and-bustle, and no reason to be in a hurry. Walking around, we were to discover a place that has changed very little in the past decades, a place of peace and simplicity.Harking back to a simpler time, colorful houses lay along the inlet that separates Zhuhai from Macao, with ancient trees stretching out to shade the pedestrians and in some cases even form part of the structures themselves that line the narrow alleyways in this picturesque postcard village. ​A laid-back feeling of the island is everywhere. There seems to be no concept of time and nothing seems to pressure the locals chatting and lounging in their open door living rooms that face the street, or lackadaisically doing grocery shopping in one of the mom n pop stores that constitute the most commercial aspects of this fishing village.We took a bus up the hill to the cliff front with beach below, which in actual fact we could have walked as it was only 5 minutes away. Getting off the bus, we crossed the road and made our way down the wide stone stairway lined with lush tropical vegetation to the beachfront. At the bottom of the long stairway, the sandy beach presented itself along with a few charming buildings, yachts at anchor, just the occasional person walking slowly along the beachfront path, and tucked in the corner of the bay a luxury sailing club hotel.

​​“Meow! Meow!” a sad voice chirped from somewhere. As we hunted for our regular evening rental bikes, the distress call became louder. My boyfriend worked from home so he was ready for his ‘excursion’. “Meow meow”, “I’ve been hearing that all day” he commented, as we located our rental bikes on what we dubbed ‘Southeast Asian street’ “Meow, meow, meow…” I hopped on my bike and turned to confirm my boyfriend was doing the same, but alas there he was stooped over advancing to the base of some stone steps. My boyfriend continued in a stooped position as he climbed up the entrance of the residential access road in the small village we lived in, situated in a dumpy satellite town of the behemoth that is Guangzhou. He cupped the little creature in his palms and comforted it like a parent. “Oh…it’ll be ok". He turned to me and immediately I could see what he intended to ask --- or tell me. “Hon, we can’t leave him here.” I rolled my eyes since we were already cramped in a single square room, crowded with 2 adult humans, 2 kittens, a wardrobe, a double bed, 2 desks, and a 3 cupboard-cum-dresser….”But we don't have room” I uselessly opined---but I knew the little ‘meower’ would be heading back with us. “Well we can’t leave him here can we.” It wasn’t a question but rather the verbal form of the glare he gave. Of course I succumbed, “ok then”, I mumbled as I parked my bike.It was a little kitten with a fractured or sprained back leg. He probably fell off or was thrown off from a balcony, who knows? However, he smelled extremely fragrant as if he had just been shampooed, and, except for his leg, he was in perfect condition. Every day for a week I would look at that access road where we found him to see if there was somebody looking for something, but of course there wouldn't be. I confess, I was hoping to give him back, if, on the odd chance, somebody showed up looking anxious and concerned. I did it for a week yet no one showed up. That’s how he got his name “Limpy”—Limpy limped. We actually had decided on ‘Hoppy’, as in the first few days he moved like a rabbit when released from the huge cardboard box in which we had quarantined him, so as to protect him from being bothered by the other two inquisitive kittens. “Let’s call him ‘Magic’ if his leg ever recovers” said my boyfriend. Yet immediately as we named him ‘Hoppy’, his movement transformed to that of a limp, as if being compared to a rabbit was beneath him. And so ‘Limpy’ it was. If we had followed through on my boyfriend’s suggestion, today we would call him ‘Magic’.​Limpy has beautiful, short and extremely soft fur. Besides the burnt-orange, golden hued badge worn on his back that zips up from his tail and the brown butterfly hairdo emblazoned on his head, ears as wings, he is pure white minus a blemish or two. His eyes, a greenish yellow, are marked to the side by what looks like, from a distance, mascara, giving them a distinctive Egyptian quality. His ears when perked up are quite cat-regular but his voice is no longer in the form of a ‘meow’ but rather a high-pitched girlish whine. He talked a lot without being chatty, as if giving orders, and coupled with the dark side of his eyes, shampoo fragranced fur and his aloof bouts of isolation on the outside windowsill, as if a King, we nicknamed him ‘The Egyptian’. He was very cautious at first and tried to avoid any contact with us. I wondered if it was because he still remembered that fateful morning of falling off, or being dropped off, a balcony.After a month, Limpy was basically able to walk properly. “Stick with Limpy or change to Magic?” my boyfriend asked. “Limpy”, we both agreed. Yet his name became an antonym for what he really is—an agile daredevil. He enjoyed being alone, still does, even when the other cats are playing, or he’d go and hide off in some place to sleep, or contemplate his ‘cat life’ on the caged area outside the window. Sometimes we’d find him sitting on the windowsill with his front legs dangling over the rubber mats we had laid over the window cage, looking at the direction of his old home, pondering perhaps what might have been. Was he wondering how he could be loved and then abandoned? But at other times he joined the other two kittens playing, flying around the room as we lay in bed. ​We quickly gained Limpy’s trust though and he was much more relaxed after that first month, sleeping with confidence and in positions that seemed to us mere mortals as painfully impractical. Now I could pick him up with him remaining in my arms until I gently placed him down.​He has a nonchalant demeanor about him yet every day when I got home from a day’s absence and opened the door, it would be him that led the welcoming committee. “Aww! Aww!” Limpy crowed.​​Unlike ‘Orange’, another of our cats, Limpy is hyper aware (Orange prefers the horizontal position—on his back). The King enjoys creating mischief when we’re not looking (though he seems to understand he will be found out) and has, as most cats do, a predisposition for naughtiness.​When we moved to an apartment on the 20th floor, he took upon himself to wiggle through the nylon string balcony netting, jumping onto the ledge that decorates the building. Twenty floors high and there he was without a care in the world. And when we recently moved to our new apartment on the 32nd floor, Limpy squeezed through the railing onto the 10-centimeter wide ledge with a plan to walk towards our neighbor’s balcony. With urgency, my boyfriend immediately began creating a ‘cat defense system’ by putting up wires interlaced with cardboard along the bottom of the balcony perimeter. Though agile but not necessarily dexterously balanced, Limpy has the confidence of a King but one critical fact that he ignores is that we’re on the 32nd floor, and even Kings only live once.

New comerBefore getting on the plane to India, I became hesitant. Suddenly I felt like not going because I was envisioning mayhem in temples, strange smells, no public toilets, unsafe water, diarrhea, abandoned cows, and of course, the heat. But my mind struck that thought away like the way I would smash a mosquito against the mud-brick wall I grew up with in Sichuan. Four hours later, I landed in Singapore. ‘Getting closer’, I again became excited. After all, traveling in India has been my dream for 8 years. When I got to the security entrance, I already saw some Indians waiting. When I got to the gate, I was the only Chinese waiting in a sea of Indians and my hesitation returned. Half way from Singapore to Bangalore, the Indian flight attendants started serving food. “Good morning madam, would you like English breakfast or Indian breakfast?”, since I was determined to live like a local for a week, ‘this is a good chance to start,’ I said to myself. “Indian breakfast, please.” The flight attendant passed me a tray with a box, a piece of bread and a plastic cup of water. As soon as I tore open the cover of the hot box, I could smell the pungency of the contents, which were two small brown balls sitting in a yellowish soupy mix. I noticed there was no spoon or fork when I tried to taste the food. “Excuse me, could you give me chops … I mean, spoon?” ah, damn, old habits die hard! The flight attendant turned back with a confused look. But in a few seconds, he passed me a cutlery set. I fished one of the small balls out onto my spoon and began nibbling, ensuring that my stomach was up to the task. It tasted sweet, too sweet for me. I had no idea about the ingredients of those balls, but didn’t feel like eating the second one. Two hours later, looking through the plane window at the land I’ve been dreaming about for 8 years, I spied mountains, little towns, and winding roads running through villages and over the mountains. ‘Hello India,’ I greeted the land below.While the young customs officer was asking me immigration and customs questions, an older officer came over and standing behind the young one seated at the counter, began to repeat some of the questions presented by the junior. “What is the purpose of your trip?” he said in a thick Indian-accented head-bobbing manner. “I want to live like a local for a week.” He was amused by this answer. A few minutes later, “Welcome to India”, the young officer said with a wide white-toothed smile. “Thank you!” … ‘now I’m officially in India!’As my next flight wasn’t for 6 hours, I was subjected to wandering around Bangalore airport. My expectation was that in a big city airport like Bangalore, people would wear casual, yet most women walking around were in colorful Saris, or long dresses. I only saw two young girls in shorts! Unbelievable because in China in the summer, shorts and short skirts are the norm. Standing at one end of the main hall, I could see there wasn’t much room to wander. “Don’t walk out of the airport until you see us!” my Indian friends, Pooja and her husband’s warning was still fresh in my mind. So I paced back and forth, observed the airport’s Indian-ness, and then retired to a charging station and read my book. I looked out through the propeller plane’s window as we were approaching Hubli. The little town below looked very much like a little town in some northwestern Chinese province: low houses, not modern and an overcast sky. It only took 5 minutes to walk with the crowd from the prop-plane to the terminal building, which looked more like a Chinese train station. I looked back at the runway as I was nearing the terminal building, and saw that my plane was the only one on the tarmac. Pooja and her cousin were already waiting at the gate, though I did have to take a closer look to make sure it was her. Now that she was in an Indian dress with an Indian hairstyle, she looked very much different from the one I see in the office. Her cousin looked like a tough, however, I was soon to discover his exceedingly warm-hearted nature. As we drove to Pooja’s town, Belgaum, her cousin turned on the obligatory Indian songs. The weather was refreshingly cool on the plateau during this monsoon season. Trucks passed by with colorful religious drawings on their sides, cows wandered on the road, and carts with a depiction of some God’s picture on the back, lazily pulled by their bovine brothers, whizzed by. ‘When you’re in Rome, do what Romans do’, so I walked barefoot as soon as we walked into the apartment. But when Pooja showed me my bedroom, I did my best not to let my mouth drop. ‘So I’m staying here for 7 days?’ I thought painfully to myself as I glanced at the thin mattress spread on the floor next to the huge monolithic wardrobe. “Do you want to take a bath? I’ll show you to the bathroom” and proceeded to lead me to an ill-lit room. I couldn’t identify much under the dim light. Ug, the wet, cold concrete floor sent chills up through my feet to my spine, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. ‘I don’t really want a “bath” here.’ I turned to her, “I’m having jet lag, will do it tomorrow morning,” as I glanced around trying to identify something that looked like a shower or bathtub. It wasn’t till dinner time that I realized there wasn’t a dinner table to be found in the apartment. Two mattresses were spread on the floor. Then about 10 plates were placed in front of the mattresses. I sat at the end of one mattress against the wall so that nobody could notice my ill manner. A teaspoon of salt appeared on my plate, then some pickles, then some yellowish mix, then some flat bread, a tin glass of water appeared on the left side of my plate and a small bowl of soup appeared by the right. I was hesitant to drink the water but Pooja’s father sensed my apprehension and ensured me “it’s very safe water, don’t worry!”. I gulped down the water and smiled at him. That night as I was laying on my mat, I was anxiously waiting for the legendary waves of upset stomach to commence but nothing came. I fell asleep to the sound of silence punctuated by the sounds of insects that emanated from outside the apartment. It was a still and beautiful night. I woke up to the chirping of birds and laid there comfortably on a bed of pillows, feeling surprisingly well rested. We went to have “south Indian breakfast” the next morning. The owner of the little stand by the side of the road expertly made the breakfast on a gas stove. Soon we were given a plate with a donut-looking bread, a big bread roll and two small dishes of sauce, one white and one yellowish. In China, if I bought breakfast from the side of the road, it will be served in plastic bags. But here in India, we enjoyed our breakfast on plates, standing by the side of the road. Oh, how civilized and delicious! The wedding# 1: Before the weddingTwo days before Pooja’s younger sister’s wedding, the ladies in the house would have a “Face massage”. The female masseuse they made an appointment with earlier came in the morning with her set of tools. Pooja sat on the mat and the massage lady started to mix some cream in a small bowl. When that was done, she applied the white mix onto Pooja’s face and around her neck. About 20 minutes later, the white mix was washed off and the real massage started. After the massage, Pooja’s skin looked so great, it radiated and shone. I asked what the cream’s made of, “herbs” she replied with a pleasing smile. That evening, the girl friends of the bride came to visit. Being the bride’s college friends, they chatted lively and the living room was filled with loud laughter. They came with a mission – to draw mehndi for the bride. Before coming to India, I thought mehndi was like a tattoo and only certain people are qualified to do it. And so if you want a mehndi, you need to go to a parlor. Yet the girls just pulled up mehndi images on their phone and asked the bride to choose her favorite. Once the decision was made, one girl started drawing expertly on the bride’s hands and feet, and it was as simple as that. The rest of them started drawing mehndi for each other. Pooja did the same for me. The design I chose served only as a reference for her, as she was constantly putting her own ideas into the drawing. It was a time-consuming job yet the finished work was a piece of art. On the morning of the day before the wedding, we started preparing gifts for the groom and wedding guests from the bride’s side. For the groom we prepared colorful sweets while for the guests we prepared stainless steel bowls containing two bags of snacks, one with two sweet balls and the other with a dry spicy mix crunch. We sat on the floor packing the bowls. With about 500 people attending the wedding and probably half of them from the bride’s side, the packed bowls stacked in the corner looked like a large shining silvery cellophane gift-wrapped egg. Late in the afternoon we drove to the hotel where the wedding would take place. It was the same hotel where Pooja’s own wedding was held. At the entrance of the wedding hall, there hung on the wall a rubbing representation of the ubiquitous elephant God and laying beneath it was a colorfully chalk-drawn lotus flower with heart-shaped leaves. The wedding hall was right next to a buffet area, which is where the guests would be enjoying light meals between the coming rituals. That evening the family did a religious ritual that lasted for about 2 hours. # 2: During the weddingEverybody was up before 7 and started dressing up for the big day. Bright-colored Saris were laid out on the bed, along with numerous bangles, gold necklaces and shining earrings, fit to be the wardrobe of a bird of paradise going to meet her suitor. The intricate folding and draping of the dress pleases the aesthetically minded, a feast for the eyes, particularly with the colors of peacock plumage, where the hue of green abounds. Green is for married women. Pooja and the other married women all put on green bangles and Pooja’s mother wore a flowing green sari. When the dressing was finished, everybody looked like the stunning stars from Bollywood movies. At 8:15 a lady came to the hotel room to do make-up and hair for the bride. Having nothing much to do, I went to enjoy Indian tea on the small veranda and enjoy the view of the street below. Pooja’s father walked over and sat at the same table. “In our caste, weddings are like this.” Then we had a small talk about the wedding, the city and the state of education in Karnataka. “Lauren, the groom will arrive on a horse, let’s watch.” Pooja’s husband excitingly announced. Before long, the noise of what seemed to be thousands of drums approached from one side of the street. “Lauren, will you dance with me?” Pooja’s father invited. Remembering my painful experience of people laughing at my dancing, I instinctively said “No” with my quintessentially apologetic Chinese smile. ‘Me, dancing?!’ my painful memory was still fresh “you look like a robot when you dance!” had said my university roommate. I wasn’t going to embarrass myself again today. But the drums came closer, and I could see a sea of orange approaching. Blocking the traffic, the wall of orange, I quickly realized, belonged to the hats of the largely male wedding entourage. “You want to dance?” Pooja asked me. “No, I’ll just watch.” The orange sea stopped about 100 meters from the hotel. The drums beats became faster, inviting me to dance. My legs moved me to the crowd. I gently swayed to the drum. Soon I found myself dancing in a small circle with other ladies. A hand pulled me out from the circle, “madam, madam, see!” directed a middle-aged man as he guided me. Every Indian is a born dancer it seemed. They danced with never-ending passion. The groom came on a horse. He was in a long purple-trimmed white traditional southern Indian two-part suit with a purple Hindu hat adorned with a white feather at the front. He had a noble look about him with his confidence exclaiming “I’m the king today”. The crowd danced more enthusiastically upon seeing the groom. As I bobbed back and forth and as I struck my hand out to the imaginary center of the crowd, I sweated buckets inside my blue sari as my perspiration turned it bluer by the moment. As the dancing crowd and now groom dancing toward the hotel, I found myself finally dancing with Pooja’s father. The colorful crowd moved to the hall. Two Hindu priests were sitting on the stage preparing for the day-long rituals, which, of course, I had no concept about whatsoever. At one point, they started a wood fire in front of the hall. The number “7” is a magic number at weddings. According to Hindu beliefs, marriages are made in heaven and once the marriage is solemnized, the two souls are joined for seven lifetimes. “7” represents the upcoming seven lives. The new couple committed to each other that they will be a couple for 7 lives. The new couple walked around the sacred fire for 7 times. The bride touched 7 nuts sitting on rice with her feet. Pooja gave me some colored rice and explained that throwing it at the couple would bring them good luck. I threw pinches of rice whenever the crowd did, and we did it 7 times. The rituals went on for hours. After that, the bride and groom had a new task: taking pictures with almost everybody present that day. Since there were about 500 guests, the picture-shooting session lasted for over an hour. When some of the more elderly ladies, hunch-backed and grey-haired, hobbled to the stage for their photo, I couldn’t help wondering if they’ll ever see copies of the digital pictures. But again, it’s India, just enjoy the moment. After the photo session, we walked to a lower floor to have dinner. I grabbed a plate and spoon on a green vegetable mix, red paneer masala vegetable, cabbage, corn salad, mango pickle, chapati made from whole wheat flour, and a bowl of white, sweet Ras Malai, resembling yogurt. All were amazingly delicious vegetarian dishes. The new couple ceremoniously fed each other for the first time, which seemed to precipitate a feeding frenzy by the groom’s friends and family with the groom at its center point. I was suggested to feed him but the groom wore a painfully tortuous expression as people endlessly stuffed food into his mouth, so, taking pity, I chose a small brown sweet ball and gently popped it into his overworked mouth. # 3: After the weddingIt’s customary for the bride to be accompanied by a good female friend when she goes to the groom’s home for the first time, yet on that day the bride’s friend’s menstruation came so, according to Hindu custom, this is a no-no. Pooja also couldn’t go because somebody from her husband’s family had passed away a week before. And I was also a candidate even though I was totally unfamiliar with Pooja’s sister, but more importantly, I also was in my ‘no-no’, so we all waved goodbye at the rather worried bride as her car joined the traffic and headed to Hubli. I turned my head and saw Pooja’s mother wipe her cheeks—another chick had left the coop. The next day after breakfast, we headed to Hubli to visit the newly married couple. The insane traffic is a recipe for head-on collisions as every vehicle seemed to be in a race with constant overtaking. “Indians can wait for anything but traffic.” Pooja’s father commented. In addition to the death-wish driving, I witnessed the world-famous overcrowding of buses and vehicles, most noticeably a three-wheeler running in front of us with young guys hanging all over, following close behind was another three-wheeler but empty, however, it seemed the passengers preferred to board the previous three-wheeler in part to the enjoy the actual ‘hanging-off’. Pooja’s husband turned to me and said with a gleaming smile: “they think it’s cool, I used to do the same.” Most of the buses on the road were without doors and never seemed to come to a full stop for picking up passengers and were painted yellow. Apparently the white buses have doors and if you are lucky, air-conditioning. Traffic in India is a kaleidoscope of transport forms, from water buffalo drawn carts to colorful trucks, from tuk-tuk types to antiquated buses. We stopped at a solitary roadside restaurant that had about 100 un-filled tables. We sat there alone as the staff lounge. Ordering my favorite Indian tea, I wandered to the store adjoining the restaurant to have a look and spotted Chinese characters adorning boxes of toys. Made-in-China even here. The groom’s family home is a 3-storey building. The groom’s elder brother showed us around. A huge kitchen, inclusive with alter and prayer space, lay on the ground floor, three bedrooms with the obligatory mats on the second, along with a living room with a massive TV screen showing real-time feeds from the surveillance cameras positioned all over the outside of the house. There was another kitchen on the third floor. “This is a non-vegie kitchen”, Pooja explained to me, “he loves his wife very much and so he lets her cook meat in here for herself.” We stood on the rooftop to see the town from where I could see low-level houses, coconut trees and temples stretching to the horizon. I pointed to the Arabic-looking words, which I later found out was written in Kannada script, on a building nearby, and asked Pooja’s husband, “What does it say?” I was surprised that he replied with “Sorry I can’t read it,” but when I realized there are over 22 major languages and over 720 dialects spoken with 13 different scripts, it made sense that Pooja’s husband wouldn’t know as he is from a different state. Immediately after finishing my lunch on the stretch of tables outside the house, one of the million sacred cows that roam the street of India walked over, looking for food in the trash can. “Feed her,” Pooja’s husband encouraged me, so I offered a piece of bread which it gladly accepted and then sauntered away. Cows are everywhere yet beef is illegal, which is probably why cows are everywhere. At dusk, the rituals started in the main kitchen where a big crowd had stayed behind to watch. “I’m watching this ritual for the first time, too!” Pooja said. Soon, the ritual group moved to the front gate of the house and started dancing with the groom’s mother in the circle with everyone dancing around her, each carrying a torch. The crowd blocked the door so I stood on a chair to watch the show where I witnessed the mother dancing as if in a trance. Suddenly a hand pulled me down from the chair and directed me to sit on the stairs so as not to block the dancing crowd from returning into the kitchen, all of whom seemed to be directed collectively by an unheard command. All I could see were people’s backsides so I retreated outside and watched the ritual through a mosquito-net window at which point I heard a screeching retch which I believed emanated from the mother, meanwhile a Hindu priest sang. “Indian brides have to do so many rituals, after that the real struggle begins.” Pooja jokingly said, as we stood by the kitchen window watching the events unfold. ‘I’m hanging outside a kitchen watching a wedding ritual in some small town on the Indian subcontinent,’ a voice inside my head mused. An eventful, interesting and educational week, no doubt. It finally happenedMy appetite in India was good, only there was one problem, I was constipated the whole time until the last day. On the way to Goa, the natural scenery was fantastic however I began to feel cold and my mood began to darken. Something was wrong. After we visited Pooja’s family temple in Goa, I had a bout of diarrhea and then proceeded to vomit on the streets of Goa for the next hour. Indian food poisoning was taking its toll. I thought I would die that day, but my inner voice tried to calm me ‘It’s ok, it’s a beautiful place,’ but everything was blurry. Squatting, a hand tried to pass me water but I refused. I stood up trying to walk again, but I stumbled. After a good while I tried to walk again with my hands holding my stomach. A shop owner across the street glanced towards me and pointed at the T-shirts. I pointed at my stomach. “Oh sorry”, he knowingly and apologetically commiserated. Farewell IndiaAfter the worst of expelling whatever it was that my stomach and bowels had rejected, I began to feel somewhat human and was then escorted to the airport by Pooja and her husband. Though still pale, I could walk upright without vomiting. My friends were concerned but non-flyers are not allowed into the airport, so I hugged my gracious hosts, but for an instant I had a sudden urge not to go. I had immensely enjoyed myself and loved the people as everybody had been kind to me. I definitely would return to this strange and beautiful country, but now it was time to return to China and my own reality. Besides, I have a great fiancé at home.

​​I awoke on the sunshine flooded balcony. Rising up from my Hello Kitty towel that served as my make-shift bed, I witnessed the dawning of a new day in one of the most beautiful cities, at least in China, but perhaps in the world, Chengdu. My immediate view was of grey-bricked traditional Chinese architecture with modern skyscrapers acting as a backdrop, the prolific green of trees lining the streets and a rare but clear blue sky, all invigorating my spirit to seize the day. My body yawned as I raised my arms into the air and stretched my neck one side to the other.“Morninnng!” I slid open the balcony door and greeted my friend, who was busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast. A cup of coffee, a glass of orange juice, a glass of water and a piece of toast appeared on the table within minutes after sitting down with his two cats on the black love seat. It was a refreshing breakfast to compliment my al fresco night’s sleep.We walked down to the “People People Happy” (人人乐) supermarket to get necessities for the day. The quiet morning suddenly evaporated in the Saturday morning bedlam that pervaded the ‘happy happy people’. The elderly shuffled in unpurposefully blocking the quicker-footed, children screamed impairing the hearing of the unimpaired, and stationary shop attendants incurred the lazy to feel energetic, all coalescing to form a peacefully chaotic microcosm of Chengdu. As we approached the checkouts, it became evident that only one was open, the long line peppered with grey heads and screaming kids. “Oh for God’s Sake!” spat my friend. Exiting ‘People People Happy’, we saw yawning shopkeepers and work-resistant food stall operators unshuttering their business establishments. The city was gradually waking up. My friend had to work later that morning so I opted for a stroll. Although Kuan Zhai Xiang Zi (宽窄巷子), a famous so-called historical attraction in Chengdu was only a stone’s throw away, I didn’t feel like battling the early arisen tourists. People’s Park was a no-no too, the ubiquitous ‘People’ acting as a deterrent, so I opted for a relaxing saunter along the arresting beauty of a local canal that fed into a park without the word ‘people’ inserted into its name.The one thing Chengdu constantly delights is the charming parks that are dotted throughout the city, with canals and streams flowing within, punctuated by arched bridges and intersected by pavilions, which most likely contain elderly citizens, those who aren’t shopping at ‘People People Happy’, performing Taichi. Being passed by joggers, I walked along the canal, filling my nostrils with the fresh morning scent of ancient trees, my ears with the sounds of birds and my eyes with the shimmering glory of the sun reflecting off the waters. I truly felt at peace.After lazily strolling for a few hours, I headed back to the subway station near my friend’s house. But thinking about having a tea and not wanting to take part in the Starbuck decadence situated in the densely-packed center of Kuan Zhai Xiang Zi, I opted for the alleyway adjacent to the thronging tourist area. This little alleyway and Kuan Zhai Xiang Zi are worlds apart. Unlike the always-packed Kuan Zhai Xiang Zi, where replicated ancient Chinese buildings welcome, daily, thousands of tourists with their multitude of accents and dialects from all over China, this alleyway is a quiet respite lined with sun-shading vibrant trees. The locally owned cafés, tea houses and restaurants, painted in pastel colors and adorned with verandas, shrubbery and flowers, and haphazardly discarded crates of empty beer and wine bottles outside the establishments from the revelry the night before, all beckoned me with that lackadaisical Chengdu charm to sit and enjoy its quaintness.Delighted, I wandered up one side and down the other of this hidden away street, unbeknownst by the tourists trapped in the next-door tourist trap, and decided to sit on one of the many teahouse verandas lining this local gem.I ordered green tea and sat at a sunny table and opened my book. The family who ran this tea house were chatting lively while enjoying their tea too. Teahouses are on every street in Chengdu. They aren’t only for tea but also for playing mahjong, conducting business meetings, engaging in afternoon dates, and for simply whiling away the day. The clicking sound of mahjong tiles pervades the afternoon air along with the spicy aroma of red chilies emanating from another one of Chengdu’s mainstays, that being the hotpot and chuanchuan restaurants that are just as prevalent as the teahouses.A few hours later I returned to my friend’s house and was informed that we were invited for chuanchuan. Darkness fell and neon signs lit up, welcoming the Chengdu nightlife. After exiting the subway station, we followed the directions given to us trying to locate the restaurant, which soon unveiled itself with the aroma of chuanchuan becoming more pungently apparent. We heard a holler and were greeted by our friends. The restaurant itself was a hole in the wall with two small seating areas inside and one table that was half inside and half out. Our friends were sitting at the ‘fresh air table’.Many people ask what’s the difference between hotpot and chuanchuan. Chuanchuan (串串), as the character suggests, are bamboo skewers piercing small chunks of vegetables or meat, whereas hotpot ingredients are served on plates, though both are boiled in a thick spicy oily red soup with schools of red chili peppers and chunks of ginger floating about. Many restaurants that serve hotpot and chuanchuan have the heating pot laid into the actual dining table, however, this small dilapidated ‘greasy pot’ of a restaurant had a massive vat where the chuanchuan was boiled by an older plump woman. As we sat at the table, the skewered meat, intestines, animal organs and vegetables were placed in a large stainless steel bowl drowning in the hot oily mixture. The small dingy restaurant quickly filled as we sucked in the spicy feast with the enthusiastic chatter of patrons drowning out the traffic noise from yet again another tree-lined road that I and my friends were sitting a spit’s throw away from.As we sat outside enjoying the spicy feast, customers all eating, drinking and chatting enthusiastically, my male companion and his friend drank icy cold Harbin beer to douse the burning sensation within their mouths. After satiating on chuanchuan, we felt eager to enjoy more of the Chengdu delights that awaited us on this warm evening.We headed to a charming bar just down the road, which had a massive international collection of bottled beers lining the oak cabinets on either side of the light but cozy lit room that resembled a miniature beer hall. The awning outside, suitably enough, was decked out with flags of the world. We sat drinking at a long wooden table adjacent to the window and chatted the night away, though my male companies couldn’t help but secretly glance at the occasional Sichuan beauty walking by. My male friend, I once heard him say, stated that Chengdu and indeed all of Sichuan should be made a UNESCO heritage site, not for its stunning scenery but rather for its stunning females.Next morning, instead of hunting for bras and dresses, a hobby for many of Chengdu’s beauties, at some boutique store on Yulin Xilu (玉林西路), another gem of a street also famous for its ‘Xiao Jiu ba’ (La Petite Bar), I decided to check out the new IFS shopping center in the heart of Chengdu. I found myself wandering around an underground portion of the mall, where nestled in a corner, I found a bookshop called Fangsuo (方所). The entrance was dark, but on my first visit I even questioned myself as to whether it was a book shop at all since the entrance was dimly lit with tables showcasing clothes and snacks but as I passed through the end of the tunnel-like entrance, I was amazed to see a sea of bookshelves under an arched ceiling that housed a second level of bookshelves accessible by a metal walkway. The last time I was in Chengdu, it would have been impossible to find such a huge and exquisite collection of books but it seems Chengdu has begun to give the Eastern cities a run for their money. ‘Welcome to new Chengdu’ I thought to myself.People were leaning against shelves and sitting on the floor comfortably reading. When I passed a small corner, I was surprised to find a compact but substantial English section. Tucked away in a subterranean world away from the bustling hordes of the city above, a budding metropolis 2000 miles inland, I could not only stay here and read until the end of time, I could also live here and forget the world.What a perfect life you could lead in Chengdu. No wonder they say: “once you come to Chengdu, you won’t want to leave (成都，一座来了就不想走的城市)”.

Today is a bit cool. Rain has washed away much of the humidity. A gentle breeze soothes the travels. Travelling is so much more pleasant than only a day ago. Chongqing, the oven, a moniker that is well earned. I suppose temperatures could be hotter, or we could be in hell.Walking -- even for a few blocks -- made sweat flow. Quickly, my throat became parched. Water, I needed water, cold water--and lots of it.This happened to be a day selected for travelling a long way and included some miles of walking. Maybe my life was saved through having packed a refillable bottle of water. It got refilled constantly because the water was consumed constantly.Seeing became an issue. So much sweat poured down my forehead, my eyes became flooded every few minutes. Wearing sunglasses to protect my eyes was useless. The heat kept my glasses foggy and wet with sweat.I admire anyone who can deal with this oven, I CANNOT. I am only happy that I at least showered, so my body is not too dirty or funky.Chao Tian Men Port held some intrigue. Despite annoying rain, lots of people scurried around this vast site. One had to go down a steep hill to be in the area. Once there, itwas still a4 or 5 story decline in order to get to where the port actually is. From above you had a panoramic view of the river, the ships on the river, a large suspension bridge, and the city skyline.In the haze, the skyline looked beautiful. Despite the haze, the river looked awful.The murky waters went from a color of deep green to brown.Who knows what was to be found in that water.I bet no fish or human could survive. One ship on the water looked like a cruise ship. Evidently, this is one that takes people on a tour of the river and The Three Gorges. Although the ship was huge, it did not appear to be particularly full.I do not know the exact schedule, but it was still fairly early in the morning, and the ship had yet to depart.Lots of salesmen hadaggressively atttempted to sell tickets for the ride.So many of them practically escorted me down the hill and into the port begging for a sale.The other ships resembled traditional Chinese ships -- very old in design. Those ships were restaurants, I think. Surprisingly, I did not see a lot more vendors selling their wares. It is likely that the inclement weather had something to do with the low turnout.