When I walk on the streets, the bricks under my feet are rather romantic. They are old streets of brick. It seems so ancient. These roads are not ancient but the old buddhist temple here is old and is now a mosque. I will find the date of it. I feel I am in some pre 1900 time. I can imagine it. The iron pots/bowls for Chinese medicine are laid out to sell. I can imagine it from long ago. The old men hunched over pushing a cart. Little children run by. Dogs sometimes wandering. Street sweepers with the straw brooms of Kenya and India. The sun glinting on the tile roofs. I feel a part of it. But not. There are the motor bikes, there is some blaring music, I see the western wedding dress shop. The electric signs.
But some signs in Chinese characters seem old even though they are modern.
The hotel restaurant so romantic.
Noodle shops or tea houses so 1950s. The mix of cell phones and old men with long white pointy beards.
I cannot speak to those around me. Nothing is easy. I get in the elevator with the maid. She sees I look her in the eyes. She wants to speak too. We stumble through with our simple efforts but cannot understand each other. I am embarrassed and frustrated but willing to keep trying. We settle for Ni Hao or a nod each day. It will have to be enough.
