Welcome back to China. It is the morning of the 2nd of January. The whole tour seems to have flown by, and my memory is already hazy. I remember going around Shao Xing, and I remember the concert in Xian Ju, but beyond that? Not much.
I don’t usually black out, even after a drinky-poo, but it feels like I forgot to press Control+S. No saves to rely on. Bugger. Maybe it’s the thought of going home tomorrow? The dread of the parenthesis closing?
Strangely, I wasn’t even fed up with sharing a room with Corentin, and bus rides with everyone were still enjoyable. Definitely bizarre. It can’t be Blue Monday yet!
Anyway. The previous evening, while I was exploring the park, some of my colleagues had stumbled upon a scenic residential area—just the kind of place I’d love to capture in my last shots of China. This wasn’t the posh China of Shenzhen; this felt like a more “authentic” part of town.
And it was stunning, as you’ll see later in the photos—filled with all the quintessential imagery of China: round entrances leading to inner courtyards, red lanterns preparing for the Chinese New Year, fish drying under the rafters, boats drifting along the canals, humpback bridges, mopeds zipping past, and an old lady eating her rice for breakfast. Even Confucius was there—his wisdom guiding us through the streets.
I had heard about this little quarter at dinner the night before. My colleagues had waxed lyrical about it, so off I went, camera in hand. Now, you know my sense of direction—getting lost, or at best, off track, is inevitable. I was told: “Turn left outside the hotel, walk about ten minutes, and you can’t miss it.” Which, of course, is exactly the kind of thing I do miss.
But not today. For once, my terrible sense of direction didn’t fail me—God must have been smiling on me that morning.
All of a sudden I was there, walking around with my camera at the ready remembering to take colour photographs because my wife had asked me to. I meandered through the street watching the morning rituals, people clearing their throats and spitting on the ground, better out than in, people eating their rice for breakfast. The place seemed to be waking up gently, and the mopeds taking their passengers to work and not driving too fast either.
There was one moped that thought he could make it over the bridge in one go. He tried a few times, but obviously it wasn’t going to happen, because it would have made a wonderful photograph. The man got off the thing, and walked it across the bridge and seemed to appreciate my clapping him over. Encouragement is as universal as something very universal.
I kept wandering around with no fixed idea of what to do or see. I could see a kettle boing for the tea, and felt a slight pang of jealousy. I was of course, tealess. I reached the outside of the quarter, and just headed back in at the sign. I had seen a wicker chair which would have been perfect for my afternoon snoozes.
As I came back in, people seem to have awoken from their slumber, and the small shops started to open. There were all kinds of things for sale. Chinese New year decorations, clothes that were lovely but might have been a tad small for my more rotund frame. There were shops selling brooms and pans. It was definitely buy local…
As I left for the last time and having taken my phtoographs, I passed Sarah, a fellow photographer, who had obviously awoken slightly later then myself. We of course said good morning and wished her luck with her camera.
I mozied on down, back to the hotel to pick up my suitcase and horn, getting ready for the trip to Xian Ju. And this is where my memory goes a little fuzzy, like my camera out of focus. I remember the concert, sure, but everything else? It’s like my mind just pressed pause. A temporary freeze-frame.
It’s strange, isn’t it? How the mind works in these moments. Maybe it’s the thought of the long journey home—the “parenthesis” closing, as it were. The feeling of something coming to an end, but not quite ready to leave. That lingering moment between chapters, when you’re not sure if you’re truly finished yet.
But then again, I’ll leave that for next time. Perhaps when I’m home, looking back on these images, I’ll see it clearer. For now, though, I can’t remember a thing—not for the life of me.
IJM Photography 