31 V 2008
Aphasia
I lost count the number of times that I visited this ancient capital. No, not so ancient: the ever-polluted air and the smell of dust reminds me–without even seeing those endless streets of neon lights and broad streets filled with endless cars–that this, indeed, is the capital of the postmodern China. Symbols, tags–those wonderful things once again treat me with their wonderful gift. I am in reversed cultural shock again. This city–so Chinese, yet so non-Chinese–is the maze that gives both adventure and despair. I stand facing its wonder only to realize that words left my mouth to become symbols themselves. I am without them.
Airport
Exactly what we need. An “international” airport. A door to the world. But the familiar scene of the customs reminds you that this is no other place. At once a display of affluence, the usual crowed outside of the gate pulls you back from illusions. You have entered, indeed, into your familiar land. The changing shops in its lobby reminds you that this particular gateway, like its host, never stays the same. The other airports are proud to let people go: but this one, indeed, honors itself in luring them in.
“Motel 168″
This is supposed to be a motel, somewhere near the convenient location of Zhongguancun for easy access of PKU and Tsinghua. Indeed, its precision is to be praised for missing its promises only 15 minutes by cab. The suspicious circular bed mark this hotel to be nothing more than a typical Chinese run-down hotel. Message services and whatnots: I care not to continue.
Noodle Shop
The first thing you see is people. Idle people; sitting around 3 tables and watching mindless TV dramas. You feel the heat of late May and realize that the air conditioner, in front of you, offers nothing to ease the pain. For the first time you experience the recent inflation in practice. The old noodle soups are no longer so affordable. Nevertheless you waited, alone, facing outside in a greasy chair. No one pays attention to you–but as a customer paying his dues, you know what to expect.
Wudaokou
Strange mixtures. In one second you hear Beijing-dialect Chinese, in the next, you sense a mixture of Korean and southern dialect. Shops bring color and vitality to the street. In each of them different music plays–all in the same style suitable for banal reproduction. Loud noise. Cars pass and offer no yield to pedestrians. An old man stands near a bank and plays traditional instruments. The rag that he wears is without much color but much textual, quite opposite to the bright dresses of the young women that passes by him without heed. Train approaches: more people join this cacophony while others leave it a it is, in its exact harmonic tranquility. There’s no sign of any symbols; they are within nothingness itself.
