A rooster crows in Beijing. The 110 bus follows the 394 bus into the main throb of traffic. Along the sidewalk yesterday’s snow remains in patches in the shade. Shovels lean against brick walls, their lips curled badly from last year’s beating. Call it the first day of winter though it’s not. Today is Monday and therefore the beginning of something. All the big coats at the bus stop are last year’s big coats. Faces clench in the cold. A woman wearing ear muffs tends to her delivery tricycle, flipping latches on the rear container.
On my pink bicycle I turn onto Third Ring Road, having just dropped my daughter off at school in her green Monday morning track suit. I smell oil baking on a grill. Bus exhaust. Clear blue morning. First day of winter in Beijing and it’s not even December. According to government policy the heating season begins November 15th, the day all buildings in the city get heat, though there is talk of stoking the power plants early this year in response to the cold snap.
Why am I so happy to be riding home when I know there’s no more coffee left? Why is pedaling a bicycle such an exquisite pleasure? I don’t think about my father-in-law in the hospital or the fact that my child doesn’t understand a damn thing in the Chinese school. A motor-powered tricycle overtakes me on the left, hauling bags of longevity noodles in clear plastic bags. I hope the noodles don’t freeze. I watch the tricycle race away down the crowded street, past campus and into a gray crush of distant shapes that make up the faraway intersection.
At home, pink roses hang in the courtyard.
On my pink bicycle I turn onto Third Ring Road, having just dropped my daughter off at school in her green Monday morning track suit. I smell oil baking on a grill. Bus exhaust. Clear blue morning. First day of winter in Beijing and it’s not even December. According to government policy the heating season begins November 15th, the day all buildings in the city get heat, though there is talk of stoking the power plants early this year in response to the cold snap.
Why am I so happy to be riding home when I know there’s no more coffee left? Why is pedaling a bicycle such an exquisite pleasure? I don’t think about my father-in-law in the hospital or the fact that my child doesn’t understand a damn thing in the Chinese school. A motor-powered tricycle overtakes me on the left, hauling bags of longevity noodles in clear plastic bags. I hope the noodles don’t freeze. I watch the tricycle race away down the crowded street, past campus and into a gray crush of distant shapes that make up the faraway intersection.
At home, pink roses hang in the courtyard.
RSS Feed