My guest is on the fence. It’s the end of the day. He’s tired. How many meetings did we do? I’ve got a reservation at a place that I suspect he will really enjoy. I push a bit.
And it’s enough. He’s willing to
go. “Driver, take us to Jiaodaokou.
In the last year of the
last millennium I used to say that all the time. I lived in a small hutong not far from
there. And it was lovely then and as it
always seems to have been when one looks backward in China, it was all about to
happen. And what was a lack at that time is
now a precious glimpse at something long gone.
I take my friend through
the alley way off from the drum tower
into Houhai. I think of the time I
walked through here for the second time in my life, in 1994 and how remarkable I thought it
was that I’d managed to remember the way to this fascinating lake that had a seemingly famous restaurant that one could visit, instead of three hundred to choose from.
And the view back from the
lake to the drum tower is still commanding.
The tower is still ominous. The
neighborhood with all its trees and two story immediacy is still distinct and
worth schlepping someone all the way in to see. The restaurant isn’t far but I keep guessing incorrectly precisely which hutong it in and I notice how little I recognize much of any place, any more. Everything has changed three or four times by
now.
It’s just cold enough that
everyone else is inside but warm enough that we can choose to dine outside
comfortably. It keeps the conversation
sharp and urgent.
Monday, 10/16/17
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