As I watched the blood moon glowing above the Hiroshima skyline, I felt a sad sense of resignation, knowing that it was my last night in Japan. With a belly pleasantly full of okonomiyaki, I thought about the extraordinary kindness of the people that I met in Japan, the crazy juxtaposition between the pulsing cities and the peaceful mountains, and the fact that sushi is never going to taste as good again.
Doing my best to silently struggle into my clothes, I left the hostel at 05:30 to get the bus to the airport. After two short flights, briefly suspended by a shorter layover, we began to descend into Beijing. And we kept descending. I began to wonder why the cloud was so low, before realising that it had transmorphed into smog. A dusky yellow haze obscured the world. The sun was reduced to a distant red disk in the sky, unable to muster the strength to cast a shadow. I became aware of my breathing, trying to inhale in short, shallow bursts, in an attempt to protect my lungs. The smog clung to us as we went deeper into the city, a noxious menace intent on smothering those who dared to question it’s sovereignty. Welcome to Beijing.
This morning I got up early, and after working out how to arrange my facemask without steaming up my glasses, I took the subway (which was surprisingly easy after Tokyo’s sphinx-like riddle) to Nanluoguxiang to check out the hútòng – a web of tiny streets said to embody the character of Beijing. Suspicious eyes and the throaty hoiking of mucus followed me as I wove down the dusty passageways, peering into esoteric courtyards and equally mysterious shops. By some magic I managed to find my way out of the web to the Drum and Bell towers, admiring their imperious rectitude in the dusky haze.
From there I went to the Lama Temple, the intricately detailed buildings offering respite from the clouds of incense outside. Gigantic statues gazed down serenely in the dim light, passively observing the worshippers bowing at their feet. I then made my way over to the Confucius Temple, which was much calmer and more peaceful. Marble statues of the man himself welcomed the occasional visitor, the gigantic stone slabs painstakingly etched with his teachings obediently regimented, stretching down an endless corridor.
Showing no sign of flagging, I decided to head up to the Summer Palace. Meeting with droves of tour groups, I zigzagged down The Long Corridor, regretting the obfuscation of the lakeside vista. In some respects, however, the fog made the whole experience more atmospheric. I sat watching boats fade out of vision, while the haunting silhouettes of the palace unblinkingly guarded the shore.
Finally admitting my exhaustion, I stumbled back to the hostel, but not before indulging in a cheeky bit of Peking Duck. I think I deserved it.