Monsoon. Humidity  is 100% and I sweat at all times, doing anything. I walk up the stairs to my 3rd floor room, and sweat from places that did not have sweat glands until I came to this place. There are a thousand different scams and I only get around OK when someone uses one I already know.Then, it is easy. The name of the game is friendliness. And to be rude in response, or short with my temper, is to risk further harassment. Obsequiousness, false friendship, are tools employed. To prevaricate is the rule. It is hard, being a man used to taking someone at their word, to learn suddenly that this is not the rule with foreigners of my particular stripe.

Its strange to discover that naivete in me, but I have, and hope it serves me well, at least so long as I stay here. Delhi I hear is different from much of the country, but I am glad to have started here, where the learning curve is steep, so that what comes later I am prepared for.

Delhi these past two days.

Elephants in the street. Touts trying to make friends to take my money or lead me into scams. Feral dogs everywhere. The smell of urine and spices and dog shit and man shit and rotten food and broken sewer and sweet fried snacks. I am the great white piggybank here, and there is little infrastructure, but a strong and universal culture dedicated to parting my from my money, as suckers soon are, though I have thankfully avoided this, for the most part.

Cows roam around, and women in the traditional dress stroke them as they pass and bless themselves. My beard is two weeks old. I have had one beer since arriving.

I am overwhelmed, and it is difficult to distinguish any individual thing out of the continuous feeling of bafflement and near misses.

out

Ｉ　ｔｈｉｎｋ　Ｉ　ｓｌｅｐｔ　ｆｏｒ　１２　ｈｏｕｒｓ　ｌａｓｔ　ｎｉｇｈｔ．　Ｔｈｅ　ｗａｙ　ｔｙｐｅｄ　ｔｅｘｔ　ｌｏｏｋｓ　ｉｎ　Ｃｈｉｎａ　ｃｈａｎｇｅｓ　ｅｖｅｒｙ　ｆｅｗ　ｍｏｍｅｎｔｓ，　ａｎｄ　ｆｏｒ　ｎｏｗ，　ｔｈｉｓ　ｓｔｒｅｔｃｈｅｄ　ｏｕｔ　ｔｙｐｉｎｇ　ｄｅｓｃｒｉｂｅｓ　ｍｙ　ｓｔａｔｅ　ｏｆ　ｍｉｎｄ　ａ　ｌｏｔ　ｍｏｒｅ　ａｃｃｕｒａｔｅｌｙ．

 

Ｉ　ｈａｄ　ｄｒｅａｍｓ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｎｅｖｅｒ　ｂｅｆｏｒｅ．　Ｓｏ　ｍａｎｙ　ｔｈａｔ　ｔｒｙｉｎｇ　ｔｏ　ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ　ｔｈｅｍ　ａｌｌ　ｉｓ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｔｒｙｉｎｇ　ｔｏ　ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ　ｅｖｅｒｙ　ｅｖｅｎｔ　ｏｆ　ａｎ　ｅｎｔｉｒｅ　ｌｉｆｅｔｉｍｅ．

 

Ｉ　ｗａｓ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｖａｌｌｅｙ　ｏｆ　ｂｅｌｌｓ．　Ａｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｔｏｐ　ｗａｓ　ａ　ｌｉｔｔｌｅ　ｓｔｒｅｅｔ，　ｂｕｔ　ｎｏ　ｏｎｅ　ｌｉｖｅｄ　ｔｈｅｒｅ．Ｔｏ　ｌｅａｖｅ，　Ｗｅ　ｗｅｎｔ　ｄｏｗｎｗａｒｄ　ｔｈｒｕ　ａ　ｌｉｔｔｌｅ　ｓｔｅｅｐ　ｃａｖｅ　ｍａｄｅ　ｏｆ　ｒｏｕｎｄ　ｂｏｕｌｄｅｒｓ　ｔｈａｔ　ｏｐｅｎｅｄ　ｉｎｔｏ　ａ　ｄｒｙ　ｗａｔｅｒｆａｌｌ．　Ｉ　ｈａｄ　ｌｏｎｇ　ｈａｉｒ　ａｎｄ　ａ　ｌｏｎｇ　ｂｅａｒｄ，　ａｎｄ　Ｉ　ｗａｓ　ｔｈｒｏｗｉｎｇ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｅｌｌｓ　ｄｏｗｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｄｒｙ　ｒｉｖｅｒｂｅｄ．　Ｆｉｒｓｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｉｇｇｅｓｔ　ｏｎｅｓ，　ｔｏｌｌｉｎｇ　ａｎｄ　ｂｏｎｇｉｎｇ　ｏｆｆ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｏｕｌｄｅｒｓ　ａｎｄ　ｂｏｕｎｄｉｎｇ　ｄｏｗｎ　ｅａｇｅｒｌｙ　ｔｏ　ｔｏｌｌ　ｍｏｒｅ　ｌｏｕｄｌｙ，　ｔｈｅｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｍｅｄｉｕｍ　ｏｎｅｓ　ｐｅａｌｉｎｇ　ａｎｄ　ｃｈｉｍｉｎｇ　ｂｅｎｅａｔｈ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｉｇ　ｓｏｕｎｄ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅ　ｈｕｇｅ　ｂｅｌｌｓ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｃａｌｍ　ｗａｔｅｒ　ａｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｏｔｔｏｍ　ｏｆ　ａ　ｒａｇｉｎｇ　ｔｉｄｅ　ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｏｕｎｃｅｄ　ｄｏｗｎ　ｗｅｄｇｉｎｇ　ｔｈｅｍｓｅｌｖｅｓ　ｉｎ　ｃｒａｃｋｓ　ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｒｏｃｋｓ，　ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅｎ　ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ　ｔｈｅ　ｌｉｔｔｌｅ　ｂｅｌｌｓ，　ｔｗｉｎｋｌｉｎｇ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎｓ＇　ｖｏｉｃｅｓ　ｄｏｗｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｈｕｎｄｒｅｄｓ　ｏｆ　ｆｅｅｔ　ｔｏ　ｆａｌｌ　ｏｎｔｏ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｅｌｌｉｅｓ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｉｇ　ｓｔｉｌｌ　ｂｅｌｌｓ　ａｎｄ　ｔｏｌｌ　ｔｈｅｍ　ｑｕｉｅｔｌｙ　ｏｎｃｅ　ｍｏｒｅ　ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅｎ　ｉｔ　ｗａｓ　ａｌｌ　ｑｕｉｅｔ．　

 

Ｉ　ｗｅｎｔ　ｄｏｗｎ　ｔｏ　ｆｅｔｃｈ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｅｌｌｓ　ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ　Ｉ　ｆｅｌｔ　ｓａｄ　ａｂｏｕｔ　ｌｅａｖｉｎｇ　ｔｈｅｍ，　ａｎｄ　ｄｏｗｎ　ｗｈｅｒｅ　ｔｈｅｙ＇ｄ　ｆａｌｌｅｎ　Ｉ　ｆｏｕｎｄ　ｌｉｔｔｌｅ　ｃｌａｙ　ｐｏｔｓ　ａｎｄ　ｂｏｗｌｓ　ｍｏｕｎｔｅｄ　ｏｎ　ｓｔｉｃｋｓ　ａｎｄ　ｓｔｒｉｎｇｓ　ｔｏ　ｄｒｙ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｌａｕｎｄｒｙ．　Ｉ　ｃｏｌｌｅｃｔｅｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｅｌｌｓ　ａｎｄ　ｌｅｆｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｌｉｔｔｌｅ　ｃｌａｙ　ｔｈｉｎｇｓ．

 

Ｔｈｉｎｇｓ　ｇｏｔ　ａ　ｌｉｔｔｌｅ　ｓｔｒａｎｇｅ　ａｆｔｅｒ　ｔｈａｔ．Ｉ　ｗａｓ　ｐａｒｔ　ｏｆ　ａ　ｇｒｏｕｐ，　ｐａｒｔ　ｒｏｃｋ　ｉｄｏｌ，　ｐａｒｔ　ｓｅｃｒｅｔ　ａｇｅｎｔ，　ｐａｒｔ　ｍｙｓｔｉｃ，　ａｎｄ　ｗｅ　ｗｅｒｅ　ｏｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｌｏｓｉｎｇ　ｓｉｄｅ　ｏｆ　ａ　ｂａｔｔｌｅ　ｆｏｒ　ｔｈｅ　ｍｉｎｄｓ　ｏｆ　ｅｖｅｒｙ　ｍａｎ　ｗｏｍａｎ　ａｎｄ　ｃｈｉｌｄ　ｏｎ　ｅａｒｔｈ．　Ａｔ　ｌａｓｔ，　ｗｅ　ｗｅｒｅ　ｔｈｅ　ｏｎｌｙ　ｏｎｅｓ　ｌｅｆｔ．　Ｉｎ　ｏｒｄｅｒ　ｔｏ　ｆｉｎｄ　ａ　ｗｏｒｌｄ　ｔｈａｔ　ｈａｄｎｔ　ｂｅｅｎ　ｃｏｒｒｕｐｔｅｄ，　ｆｒｏｍ　ｗｈｉｃｈ　ｔｏ　ｍｏｕｎｔ　ａ　ｐｒｏｐｅｒ　ｒｅｓｉｓｔａｎｃｅ，　ｗｅ　ｆｏｕｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｅａｍｓ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅ　ｗｏｒｌｄ　ａｎｄ　ｕｓｅｄ　ｔｈｅｍ　ｔｏ　ｔｒａｖｅｌ　ｌａｔｅｒａｌｌｙ　ｉｎ　ｔｉｍｅ，ｔｏ　ｏｔｈｅｒ　ｅａｒｔｈｓ．Ｂｕｔ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ　ｇｒｅｗ　ｃｏｎｆｕｓｉｎｇ．　Ｔｈｅ　ｗｏｒｌｄ　ｗｅ　ｈａｄ　ｌｅｆｔ　ｈａｄ　ｂｅｃｏｍｅ　ｓｏ　ｐｅｃｕｌｉａｒ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｌａｓｔ　ｄａｙｓ　ｔｈａｔ　ｗｅ　ｈａｄ　ｎｏ　ｗａｙ　ｏｆ　ｋｎｏｗｉｎｇ　ｗｈｅｔｈｅｒ　ｗｅ　ｗｅｒｅ　ｃｏｍｉｎｇ　ｏｕｔ　ｉｎｔｏ　ａ　ｎｅｗ　ｐｌａｃｅ　ｏｒ　ｊｕｓｔ　ａ　ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ　ｐａｒｔ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅ　ｓａｍｅ　ｐｌａｃｅ．Ｅｉｔｈｅｒ　ｗａｙ，　ｗｅ　ｗｅｒｅ　ｈｏｕｎｄｅｄ　ｂｙ　ｔｈｅ　Ｐｏｗｅｒｓ　Ｔｈａｔ Be.

 

And what began as a fun adventure, playing the prankster and fooling the Status Quo and short-circuiting it by holding up the mirror to its face, suddenly it became very real, and it was just us against the world, a world the entire resources of which were used to fuel the fiery hunt for us, the only remaining humans who could think. No one wanted us to help them, and no one wanted to be saved.

 

One time I and a friendly Impi soldier who I'd de-brainwashed (or re-brainwashed) were escorting a mother and her newborn up a winding forest path. But while we were busy clearing an area, a bad impi, with his long head like a cylinder and his long arms and long legs, 3 meters tall, fell out of the trees and killed her. The baby was screaming, and wouldnt stop. and I put the baby up to the dead mothers breast to quiet him. She came back to life, I think, but something seemed wrong, and so I left. Overhead there had been colorful shapes following us the whole time. I wondered if it had just been a dream. I dreamed that I was in a  little dormitory room with three other people.

 

I was in the library of one of the secret chief marshalls of our enemy. He had caught me, and was trying to show me the sense of his position. He showed me books. Shakespeare and Moby Dick, to prove they were not mindless husks full of belief and propaganda. They could think for themselves. And as he spoke there was an agreement of ministers, nodding their heads in approval of the wisdom of this. I pretended to be convinced, but prepared my mind to be infiltrated at any moment.

 

Suddenly the marshall left the room, and I casually examined his books. When I turned back from the shelves, the room had become a beach, surrounded by cliff walls which were the library's shelves. A little library cove. And in the middle of the beach were the heads of different creatures that had been buried up to the necks to await the tide. They were all very serene though, and just stared at the sky very calmly, looking from one cloud to the next. I sat with my back to the shelves and watched. There was a ship out to sea. the heads glanced around, and suddenly the marshall returned in the shape of a little car. I didnt respond to his questions and logic, I just sat. He grew angrier and angrier. One by one the creatures buried in the sand popped up and slid away to safety. When　ｔｈｅ　ｌａｓｔ　ｏｎｅ　ｌｅｆｔ，　Ｉ　ｈａｄ　ｗｏｎ．　Ｔｈｅ　ｍａｒｓｈａｌｌ　ｄｉｓａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ，　ｄｅｆｅａｔｅｄ．

 

Then we were back in the ruined shower we used as a hideout when we werent traveling looking for a safe place. We'd talk about where we'd been, and what it had been like. And how some places seemed perfect until we realized they had just been made to seem perfect to trap us all.

 

We heard a voice from around the wall of the ruined shower saying Hello? hello?

 

I stood just around the corner. He had a gun out and was about to find us. I grabbed his arm and pinned him. He was a strange-looking man. As I held his arms, they began shrinking out of my grasp. His whole upper body was shrinking, soon he'd be just a pair of trousers. His shouting voice grew smaller and smaller and I threw him into the seam, which opened into the Terrible Pit. the Terrible Pit was a place we didnt like to talk about, and wished we'd never found. A world which was a ball of bone ash, and there was no light, and the darkness opened one up and ate one from the inside out. Got you from inside, where we are all already dark and uses that place to eat one utterly. I threw him in, and was surprised at the evilness of what I'd done. It seemed like we'd at least managed to keep out goodness, while fighting. But now, having thrown the shrinking body into the Terrible Pit, it seemed gone, and what was the use? I heard his small voice begin to scream as the darkness edged in.

 

Ｔｈｅｎ　ａ　ｗｏｍａｎ　ａｐｐｒｏａｃｈｅｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｒｕｉｎｅｄ　ｓｈｏｗｅｒ．　ａｎｄ　ｓｈｅ　ｈａｄ　ａｌｍｏｓｔ　ｎｏ　ｌｅｇｓ，　ｂｕｔ　ａ　ｎｏｒｍａｌ　ｂｏｄｙ．　Ｗｅ　ａｌｌ　ｒｅａｌｉｚｅｄ，　ｔｈｅｙ　ｗｅｒｅ　ｉｎ　ｌｏｖｅ，　ａｎｄ　ｌｏｖｅｒｓ，　ａｎｄ　Ｉ　ｈａｄ　ｔｈｒｏｗｎ　ｏｎｅ　ｈａｌｆ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅｍ　ｉｎｔｏ　ｔｈｅ　ｔｅｒｒｉｂｌｅ　ｐｉｔ．　Ｉ　ｆｅｌｔ　ａｗｆｕｌ．Ｉｔ　ｗａｓ　ａ　ｌｏｎｅｌｙ　ｍｉｓｅｒａｂｌｅ　ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ　ｔｏ　ｈａｖｅ　ｓｅｎｔ　ａ　ｍａｎ　ｔｏ　ｔｈｅ　ｔｅｒｒｉｂｌｅ　ｐｉｔ．

 

Ｓｈｅ　ｗａｓ　ｙｅｌｌｉｎｇ　ｆｏｒ　ｈｉｍ，　ａｎｄ　ｊｕｍｐｅｄ　ｏｖｅｒ　ａ　ｆｅｎｃｅ　ｉｎｔｏ　ａｎ　ｉｎｓｔｉｔｕｔｅ　ｗｅ　ｈａｄｎｔ　ｎｏｔｉｃｅｄ　ｗａｓ　ｒｉｇｈｔ　ａｃｒｏｓｓ　ｆｒｏｍ　ｔｈｅ　ｒｕｉｎｅｄ　ｓｈｏｗｅｒｓ．

 

Ｗｅ　ａｌｌ　ｆｏｌｌｏｗｅｄ　ｈｅｒ．　Ｉｔ　ｗａｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｉｎｓｔｉｔｕｔｅ　ｏｆ　ｅｘｐｅｒｉｍｅｎｔａｌ　ｄｅｌｉｇｈｔｓ．

 

Ｔｈｅｒｅ　ｗａｓ　ｍｏｒｅ，　ｂｕｔ　ｉｔｓ　ａｌｌ　ｓｏｒｔ　ｏｆ　ｎｅｂｕｌｏｕｓ　ｎｏｗ．

 

Ｔｈｅｎ　Ｉ　ｗｏｋｅ　ｕｐ　ｂｅｆｏｒｅ　ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ．　Ｉｔ　ｔｏｏｋ　ａｗｈｉｌｅ　ｔｏ　ｂｅ　ｓｕｒｅ　Ｉ　ｗａｓ　ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ　ａｗａｋｅ．

Expo: wait in the queue to wait in the better queue. Only if I was getting paid to.

By the power of wandering flaneur magic we discover the exact fabric market Daniel wanted to see, Then spend the next 3 hours wandering around alleys in the part of old town where locals sell things to locals instead of to visitors.

Smallest girl child I have ever seen runs up to us, launches into kung fu pose with V for Victory fingers out and shouts HEL LO! and then runs of behind us, the deed done.

Old guy: "English American? English American, yes OK?"

"Yeah, meiguoren, American."

"English American?"

"Yeah, English, yingwen, dui."

"English American? English American?"

We both laugh. 

A pretty girl in a booth in a crowded fruit market is teasing a cat with a mouse on a string. I stop to watch. When the cat jumps she pulls the string away and  the cat falls. We both laugh.

In the meat market, we were the most out of place. Eels and prawns and bream were flopping in shallow styrofoam and plastic trays waiting to be skinned and sold, or sold by the fistfuls. Everything was kind of oil-slick. I bought two vegetable baozi that we ate. the girl I bought them from understood what I was asking for enough to get it right, but she couldnt stop laughing, or maybe she was embarrassed.

We met the German who's staying in our room and drank small beer with him most of the night. He described a bad mushroom trip in Amsterdam: "I don't know, we took them, and the man gave us a receipt which said, you know, try and do these things, and these things to avoid, andso, of course I lost it, yes, and so, we waited an hour, and took beer, yes? and think, these are no good, we are not tripping. and begins what you call it, seeing things which are not, and looking out the window, and stones are moving, and inside the lobby of the hotel, the wood is moving, and makes a sort of crown on my friend, and  the elevator has disappeared, so we must go out the emergency exit, and of course then, the alarms, and the owner comes and says "yes yes, i see what you have done, come the elevator is right here" and we go out, but we are in the red light district, yes? and so the prostitutes are coming to us and showing us what they will do and we say No no no and go back to our hotel room. And my friends is on the floor making the push-ups, yes? he is saying how disgusting blue the carpet is. And so it lasted four more hours than that."

We decided that if you can describe a psychedelic experience in a foreign language, then you are without doubt proficient in that language.

"If God allows Shanghai to endure, he will owe Sodom and Gomorrah an apology."

 

I like it here.

 

We did not eat all morning, but hunger keens the senses. All day raining. Metro to People's Square and the shopping promenade stretching from there to the Bund. The Expo mascot in every window and most shopping bags. Men carrying bags of cactus whispering "hashish marijuana" and miniskirt girls:"hello I like you Let's go" as soon as the rain lets up for a minute.

 

A young businessman - like us, from California - bought us lunch in a cafe bar. An enviable life of living in capital cities around the world. "It seems like a jetsetter life, but really it's hard work, going all over like that." I nodded. I was skeptical, but kept it to myself. If someone buying you lunch wants you to believe their life is more burdensome than it seems, it seems ungrateful not to at least nod. He seemed interested in our trip to India, and so I told him a little about it, but, I think, he meant it in a different way and grew a little bored, so I stopped talking and we resumed asking him questions about himself. I asked him about his Chinese girlfriend. Daniel asked him what he missed about California. I asked him about his job. The manner in which a person answers questions like this is vastly more educational than the answers themselves. He signed the bill and returned to work and we finished our coffee and tea and went back out to wander around, much refreshed. We agreed, he was a very nice guy. And it is very, very satisfying to have your lunch paid for by someone who seems to have gotten his fair share of free lunches.

 

No one made a dollar they didn't earn unless someone worked for a dollar they didnt get. I think Big Bill Hayward said that.

 

We wandered past the Bund until we hadn't seen another Western tourist for some time, then down the first alley we saw that seemed to have venders and carts and foodstalls. It was one and a half men wide.

 

The buildings in places like that are edifices piled upon edifices, like the dark brain of Piranesi. ten broken cisterns in a row, lightning bolts of moss holding them together like rotten living mortar, each tub full of a different amount of the only perfectly clear water I've seen in a week. Half-bicycles turned upside-down everywhere. A leather man wearing clothes as an afterthought, in the shadow of the dangerously drooping concrete underhang of a second storey assembled, as though in a silently and frantically criminal single night of sorcerous construction, on the sinking unfortunate first floor upon whose back additional levels were already being devised in the secret mind of the living alley. The archecture is feverish and desperate. The use concrete with an ingenuity and irreverence that is without precedent in my experience, like a universal adhesive. Innumerable clotheslines buttress  each residence to another. Storefronts are erected in front of and upon others, until each shop has strange paired specialties, such as top-of-the-line stovetop ranges and baby clothes, cigarette cartons and moped wheels. Plastic tubs, police caps, toilet seats, a cosmetologist, bike repair, all of them without custom, every proprietor and employee of which is sitting on tin canvas stools with their shirts undone playing chess or shouting and smoking. 

 

One can peer over window boxes into the second storey of most tiny apartments from my height, and stairs carved out of the cobblestones lead into the only-recently subterranean entrances to the first floor homes.

 

It isn't quite the golden age of opium gangsters that missionary I quoted at the beginning was referring to, but you can't have everything!

 

Regards from the Whore of the Orient!

At night, it is a graveyard shrieking with life.

Windows in the towers are lit intermittently, fluorescent orange, light yellow, white, and neon blue. Most are black. Like Hera's bodyguard, half the eyes sleep while the other half keep watch. There is some activity at their base, down the slope, involving co-ordinated applause, pendulous and metronomic. 

Tomorrow morning we will leave for Shanghai.

The dreams grow stranger and stranger. I sleep beside my cousin and it is too hot for sheets. We occupy opposite ends of the bed and the heat of our bodies produces a wall of invisible fire through the middle of the bed which neither of us can approach. 

My hair is waxed straw and smells like a work animal. When we have eaten meat our bodies rot and are slick. When we have eaten vegetables they are dry and cold. The spicier anything is, the more proof against poisons in the blood.

Yoghurt is popular. It is cold and builds white cities in the stomach that protect from the steaming dull teeth of the circling dogs.

I wake up with my arm sore, and my lungs flopping like the twin ends of a pinched worm in my chest. Music has been playing all night.

I go around, and see men my age, soft and ugly and always pretending and I am filled with wonder. Where have their souls gone? The part that is like a little diamond inside a stone which no one can touch. Do I still have it? Did i discover it, or was it counterfeit? They are like the knot at the end of a twirling rope, who refuse to believe they are swung by a hand at the end of the braid, and even refuse to believe in the braid itself. They fall like stones down a well ignorant of their cause. And I fall too. And I am a swinging knot. 

Here I dream about love every night.

Beijing + Jinan

"Welcome to China: nothing is real here." This was the Israeli hikers conclusion, which he confided to me while we were climbing the steepest stretch of the Great Wall. He was short and thick, very athletic. "I've been here six weeks, and nothing is real." His sweat streamed down her arms and fell from his fingers onto the white stones. "How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Three days."

"See. You don't know yet. But it's the same everywhere. Nowhere is anything real."

I saw him the next day, by chance, at the Night Market. He was wearing a fanny pack with a polo shirt and pleated shorts, and seemed much less believable. He was looking for "good" sports supplies. I told him I didn't know where to go to shop, but that the Market had some good fried shellfish. Real good. He winced a little, and excused himself, looking quite ill at ease.

What was real: workers sleeping on cardboard strips in their worksites during the middle hours of the day, covered in brick dust and mixing lime. Old men baring their potbellies and fanning themselves while playing Chinese chess on low stools and beautiful acne-scarred girls dressing in the Western nightclub fashion and high-heels but without the promise of sex, making the style seem false, a message translated from an attenuated signal degraded from its original state by distance and by the spots of vacuum in the language that cannot parse such lurid idiom. Yoghurt is popular. 

The most "real", in fact, was what the Israeli meant when he called it false: the selling of rebottled tap-water to tourists by elderly Mongolian transplants  along the Great Wall, the most real of which was still wearing his red star, rolled cigarettes from a saran wrap bag of reclaimed tobacco in squares of newspaper, and ate a cucumber with the side of his mouth where he still had teeth while laughing at the Americans. I owe that Israeli, for forcing me to think about what real means here.

We left Beijing the next day. It was overcast, and raining. The buildings receded into the fog and vanished, resembling toy towers. 

In Jinan, 2 hours away, the same residential towers vanished into the same fog. My friend lives in one. In the morning, I went out to smoke, and from among the bright impenetrable fog at the base of the buildings that were only just barely visible came a ghastly carnival melody that was the combination of a hurdy-gurdy busker pied-pipering children on broken bicycles, a ghostly big-top show appearing on an inauspicious day at the site of a massacre, a dial-up modem dopplering digitized calamities in and out of the real world, whichever one that is.