real winter

So yesterday, I talked about the beauty that is the Beijing winter.  Snow encrusted trees and signs, black tar beneath my bike tires, blah, blah, blah.

Then I rode home.  

Travel note: Heading west along the train tracks, fully into the wind, on a cold, smoggy night is not the best idea.  But as the sand and crystalized snow found every unprotected crevice of my person, I started to enjoy myself.  

Almost no one was out.  And those of us who did brave dirt-blown night were bundled up into anonymity.  Still I felt there was a communion here.  Passing the fully wrapped girl  in the pink parka, crossing paths with a man in black walking in the street, the boss bringing in the pots from outside his store, there was some connection.  Clearly, I did not stop to ask them about their day...nor did they me.  But I felt at one with Old Beijing.  

Riding down a dark alley, the Chuar man flipped his collar up as his charcoal flame sputtered in the harsh wind.  I have the romantic idea that this was what Beijing used to be like.  No laowai walking around, just locals braving the cold and filthy gusts to do what they must.  

I imagine they're weren't nearly as many Audis back then, but who really knows?