We flew around the Pacific Rim; over P.A., Vancouver Island and many other Canadian Islands, Alaska, Far East Russia, Sakhalin, Manchuria, mountains that resemble the Bad Lands, then farms, rivers and into Beijing. Met with open heart by our son we eased into the fourth ring. The sounds in the city, honking horns, construction and many millions of people join in a cacophony like a symphony tuning before a concert. The food we shared was marvelous, from the first night at a North Asian Fusion Restaurant featuring Max, a chef from New Orleans.
One of the eye opening places, to me, was the art district called “798”. It was a factory site for munitions, textiles and electric products, built in the 50’s with help from East German engineers and equipment. Now it is the home of art galleries, studios, shops, cafes and coffee shops. Beautiful creative use of space. Artists, curators and gallery owners and people just like us.
Went to the Palace Museum after lunch at Ho Hi along one of the many canals connecting the country with the capital. A crush of people poured in and out of the Forbidden City as we wove our way through the fascinating maze of walls, gates, gardens and halls of stone and wood. Hall of Supreme Harmony, Hall of Persevering Harmony, Gate and Palace of Heavenly Purity, built with sacred geometry for the emperor who was deemed Son of Heaven. The Purple City has been the center piece of political cosmology since its inception 600 years ago. Outside the east gate we found Courtyard Gallery, infamous haunt of art dealers here and there. At the Tiananmen Gate, Gate of Heavenly Peace, we paused for pics with Mao whose portrait adorns the massive red wall. Across Tiananmen square we found rest and refreshment in a Starbucks with familiar songs of Rosemary Clooney.
Bicycles, tricycles, rickshaws, pedicabs and bikes used like pickups with beds to haul just about anything they could manage, crowd the streets and squares. The jingling of bike bells and horns fill the air as we walk in the city. Into a classic Chinese noodle café where we are greeted with a startling shout in our ears, which occurred each time new customers entered the place… ‘hey, here we have another one…” Good food.
Back to “798” to read and relax while Jane sat and sketched colorful scenes. Then to the Dirt Market, in west Beijing where merchants and traders have brought antiques and statues to sell for centuries, originally some dug up from graves, now mostly things for locals and tourists, the sounds were wonderful. I thought I heard Paul Horn echoing in the throng.
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