Back
in Beijing. I am glad to report that the
sky is blue and there are puffy clouds off for as far as I can see. I left home a bit late for an early morning
meeting in Wangfujing and the traffic, so far, has been remarkably smooth. I’ve done the ride in thirty-five
minutes. On a bad day this could be a ninety-minute
ride. It could be worse. It’s enough to make you feel glad
to be home.
This should be the day when the routine is exotic. I should be extra sensitive to the unique
contour of what’s around me. But thus
far, it couldn’t be more normal. What a
strange normality I’ve crafted when Poughkeepsie and Beijing are regular in
equal measure.
I asked my Uber driver if there were any changes now that
DiDi had bought out the Mssr. Kalanick’s China operation. Are they winding down? Are the apps converging? This driver suggested that absolutely nothing
had changed. He didn't think anything would. More normalcy.
I stumbled upon a link to two Irish brother’s the O’Donovans who’d won the silver in men’s crew. They
were so informal and pleasantly sarcastic as they discussed their victory. It struck me how central
irony was to the Irish delivery. Genetic's a bit too strong but its an awfully strong cultural current that five generations in the United States hasn't diluted from my constitution. And it
struck me as well that it must have been the West Cork accent that taught the
citizenry of Jamaica how to speak the English language.
Have a listen to Paul O’Donovan's accent in this first clip to see what I
mean. It would have been grand to have been in a pub there in
Skibereen, watching them both up on the podium.
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