The China Journal - Day 6

Laura sleeps as I wander the brick lanes and alleys of the ancient walled city of Pingyao. The early morning sun casts a golden glow over crumbling walls and the chipped paint of weather-worn facades. It's the perfect time of day for taking photos, as the city slowly emerges from its slumber and comes alive once more. A small brass band warms up with an endless round of scales in the key of C as Tai Chi devotees practice their early morning rituals in the courtyard just outside the south gate.

The shops are closed and the tour groups have yet to arrive, which gives me the most candid opportunity to see the people here as they actually are. The elderly emerge from their homes to assume their perches on each street corner to share gossip and gawk at the out of place foreigner with his camera. Housewives empty out the contents of their chamber pots from the previous night, releasing a nauseating elixir into the sewer grates in the middle of the road. Children clad in red scarves hop on the back of their parents' bikes, on their way to a morning of socialist indoctrination at the Commie Sunday School. And finally, implying that the one-child policy is a bit of a misnomer in this country, is the horde of babies with holes in the bottom of their pants, revealing sets of baby butt cheeks my mother would find impossible not to squeeze, being doted on by their parents and relatives.

Later on in the day, as Laura and I explore the city on our rented bikes, I point out how the preserved state of this small city, replete with rusted bicycles, grey brick walls, tiled roofs, curved eaves and red lanterns hanging above the doors of many of the shops and homes, is everything Tintin ever made me believe China would be like.