Blue Sun, Yellow Sky Read online

  “I’ve only been here for six months,” he replied, as if that answered my question. My guess was that the move was temporary.

  I looked at the lonely desk in the corner. Wires snaking everywhere, computer parts broken open with the insides spread across his workstation. “Are you a hoarder?”

  “App developer.”

  “I thought you were a teacher.”

  “They’re all free apps. Just a side hobby for fun,” he said. “They’re all knock-off apps.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I take a concept that already exists, like Angry Birds for example, I copy the code, change the graphics a bit, so instead of pigs I’ll use women’s high heels or something, and voila, I’ve got ‘Burn ‘em heels.’ Or take a game like Bubble Burst, change the Bubbles to a cartoon image of my ex-fiance’s head and poof we’ve got—”

  “Are all of your games misogynistic?” I interrupted.

  “Actually, I have a really cool Facebook app called “Top This” that generates fake status updates like, ‘I just landed my dream job!’ or ‘Check out my new puppy!”’ with a picture of a super-cute dog, or ‘I’m having lunch with Obama! So excited.’ Stupid shit,” he smiled, clearly proud of his invention. “It’s my most popular app. Twenty thousand downloads and counting. In fact, I’m pretty sure Veronica even used it after we broke up to make me jealous.”

  “And did it work?”

  He looked down sheepishly, “Maybe.”

  “Awesome,” I said, handing him my phone. “Download it for the trip. We’ll make her jealous.”

  Jeff laughed and started downloading. “Just out of curiosity, do you still do that awful grinding thing in your sleep?” he asked.

  I made a face. “It’s not like you can hear it over your snoring. Besides, I have a super awesome $600 night guard and references from four ex-boyfriends.”

  “I’ll be sure to call all of them,” he said.

  After he finished packing his toiletries, we headed to the airport, crossed through security, waited for two hours in the terminal, and at 6:20 p.m. we finally boarded the plane.

  I spent the first few hours of the flight reading travel books I had downloaded onto my Kindle. I learned about the Forbidden City, studied a map of Beijing—a place full of roads laid out in loops, not unlike Houston—and stared in awe at satellite photos of the Great Wall. Sometime after reading about William Edgar Geil, the first foreigner who explored the whole length of the Wall in 1908, I fell asleep.

  Awaking to a chime and the sprightly captain’s voice over the intercom, I turned to Jeff who was just waking up as well and I was horrified to see that I had drooled on his arm.

  “Morning sunshine,” I said, glancing at the puddle. But then I couldn’t contain myself and suddenly burst into apologetic laughter. “I’m so sorry!”

  He looked down at it and grimaced.

  Still laughing, I handed him and a napkin. “It must be the airplane or something. You know, being so high up and the gravity…” He surprised me by using the napkin to wipe the drool off my face before cleaning his shirt.

  “You might want to stick in that night guard thingy when you take naps too. I kept trying to move my hand away ‘cause I thought you were going to grind my fingers off in that machine you call a mouth.”

  “Now how is it possible for me to be grinding and drooling at the same time?” I protested. I laughed it off, but I was thoroughly embarrassed.

  If walking through the terminal of Beijing Capitol International Airport was any indication of China’s size, I was in for a rude awakening. I lived in a big city, but standing in the airport’s enormous glass tunnel, my own physical being never felt more insignificant. A high ceiling made of metal buttresses combined with a long central nave gave the airport an aura of cathedral importance in a modern day setting. Sleek, barely there, tandem sling seats were neatly arranged around equally modern reception desks. Brightly lit duty-free shops boasted upscale brands like Chanel, Louis Vuitton, and Yves Saint Laurent for wealthy travelers. Flight numbers, times, and gates flickered across large LCD screens floating on crystal center islands. I watched the information switch between familiar roman characters and intricate Chinese symbols that looked more like art than words. Some of the destinations were familiar but others were totally foreign and suddenly the world became exponentially larger. Where was Xingtai, Jixi, or Nanyang? What were they like? I wondered.

  Once we picked up our bags, we were funneled into customs—a huge room divided into two categories: citizens and non-citizens. Airport security was abundant and I saw signs everywhere prohibiting the use of cell phones. Even though I obviously wasn’t smuggling anything illegal into the country, I was apprehensive about talking to the stern-looking customs officer, and became even more nervous when I discovered Jeff and I had to speak to them separately.

  “Are you here for business or vacation?” my customs officer asked.

  “Vacation,” I replied.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Four days.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  I had no idea, so I gave him my best “I’m innocent” half-smile and light shrug and said, “I’m not sure, my friend Jeff booked the hotel.” I gestured to Jeff, who stood about ten feet away talking to another officer.

  He yelled something to Jeff’s officer, who curtly said something back. The other officer did not nod or give any form of approval, so he very well could have been saying either “Yes, this man booked a hotel” or “Detain them both!” My fears were assuaged only when my officer stamped my passport and said, “Okay,” gesturing for me to pass through.

  Finally outside, a wave of heat poured over us as we hailed a cab and Jeff gave the driver directions to our hotel. We sat in the back with our small daypacks between us expecting an easy ride into the city, but we ended up on the edge of our seats the entire time. New York City had nothing on Beijing: cars were bumper to bumper with only inches of space between vehicles.

  Once on the crowded highway, another cab lightly rear-ended us. Our driver got out, yelled at him for 30 seconds, hopped back in the cab, shook his head in irritation, and continued driving. No swapping of insurance or pulling over to assess damage—the verbal lashing was the end of it. The lack of consequence made me so certain we were going to be hit a few more times before reaching the hotel that I kept my eyes on the road, unable to fully focus on the bustling city we were passing.

  The Beijing Inn Hotel (either a bad translation or tourist trap) was the Chinese equivalent of a Best Western. By the time we finally arrived, it was 7:00 p.m. local time and my body was wide-awake.

  “We made it!” I said, plopping down on the bed. “So, whatcha wanna do?”

  After we each showered, we changed, grabbed our packs and headed out.

  The second we stepped foot outside our hotel lobby, we were thrust into a mosh pit. Pedestrians, bikers, motorcycles, and cars moving in every direction dodged each other like they were in a game of Frogger on speed. Utilizing every inch of space, the city was like San Francisco without the hills. Buildings were erected only inches apart from one another (if not actually touching), streets were exactly wide enough for two small Toyota Corollas to pass each other, and it wasn’t uncommon to look up and only see a fraction of the sky for entire blocks because of signage hung vertically from upper level awnings or poles and advertisements strung on wires stretching from one building to another. The air trapped between buildings was thick from lack of circulation, making it difficult to breathe. The oppressive heat made my clothes stick to my skin and I was glad I decided to change out of my jeans and into shorts.

  “Let’s go this way,” Jeff said, taking initiative.

  “After you,” I replied. As I followed him, we passed by a squatting, middle-aged woman rotating skewers of meat over a barbecue that barely emitted any smoke at all. The round grill was maybe 14 inches in diameter, and next to the cooking meat she flipped pieces of sesame flatbread using a pa
ir of bamboo tongs. She used swift and mechanical movements, and I noticed that the flick of her wrist was similar to mine when trying to create texture in my paintings.

  “Do I need to hold your hand?” Jeff asked, looking at me. “I almost lost you.” Without realizing it, I had stopped.

  “Sorry,” I said, breaking my gaze and continuing to walk with him.

  “What were you looking at?” Jeff asked as we reached the sidewalk surrounding Beihai Park.

  “Nothing,” I said. The significance of watching the flick of someone’s wrist was personal. Pocketing the image in my memory, I continued on.

  In the center of the park stood a large white pagoda surrounded by lush green clusters of trees, and encircling the island was a lake. I came across a large golden plaque with a photo of Beihai Lake. The plaque described the white pagoda as a reliquary containing Buddhist scriptures, monk’s mantles, alms bowls, and bones of monks. I learned that Pagodas were a common part of Chinese architecture, but this was the first time I’d ever seen one and it made me wonder how many other things I would never see after going blind.

  I closed my eyes and tried to recall the image I had just seen.

  “Am I boring you?” Jeff interrupted.

  “No,” I laughed. “I’m really glad I decided to come. Thank you.”

  “You’re a pretty good travel companion so far,” he smiled.

  “Were you supposed to come here with Veronica?”

  “No,” he said, surprised. “I booked this trip after we broke up.”

  “Why did you break up?”

  “I asked her to marry me, and she decided we weren’t right for each other. Then a couple weeks later she was dating someone else.”

  I turned to look at him, wanting to comfort him with a hug like I used to do when we were kids, but we weren’t that familiar anymore.

  “What?” he asked, catching my stare.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking you haven’t changed much since we were kids.”

  “You either. In fact, I was thinking I’m probably still faster than you and I bet I can beat you to the next Pagoda,” he said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One, two—go!” I shouted already running toward the building.

  “Cheater!” he yelled sprinting after me.

  I smiled to myself as I reached the Pagoda. Victory.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Grit

  IF I had to describe the Great Wall in one word it would be ‘grit.’ Stone by stone, the Great Wall was built on a determination so fierce that well over two thousand years later, after the advent of the light bulb, the car, and a walk on the moon, it is still considered one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World. At the base of the Great Wall, I looked up and thought about how naive I had been to think the three hundred-plus steps to the fourth, and highest, tower along the Badaling section of the Great Wall would be easy.

  Most people came see the Wall, walk a few hundred yards of it, and then turn around. Not me. I wanted to walk until I couldn’t walk any longer. If I thought it possible, I would’ve tried to walk from one end to the other, but apparently it was the equivalent of walking from New York to Los Angeles. Don’t attempt it, because you will die was the impression I got while doing my initial research. After climbing about 20 steps, it was definitive.

  I was unprepared to climb the jagged and uneven steps. If my first step was four inches, my next was fourteen. Forget about mechanical movements. I had to watch every step I took, and at some sections, the wall became so steep I had to crawl. It was impossible to navigate with any sort of grace. We stopped when we reached a plateau near the peak of the mountain and perhaps it was delirium, but I think I saw God for the first time. He was sitting in the sky, legs crossed and looking down on me with pity. The image lasted only a second and then it was gone.

  “How is it possible that I’m this winded? I run two miles a day,” Jeff said, as we collapsed on the ground, each draining an entire bottle of water.

  “The locals seem to be struggling too, it’s not just us,” I said, panting. I watched as several Chinese people passed us before I realized the ones who were struggling were older, and by older, I mean senior citizens. One lady was so tiny, I was certain she didn’t clear four feet, but she briskly passed us, moving slow and steady. If I weren’t so tired I might have been embarrassed.

  “Wow,” we said in unison, watching the lady ascend.

  As I continued up with my attention fully focused on clearing one step at a time, I barely noticed the view beyond the wall. But once at the top, I turned to look over the edge and found a landscape that opened up like a lush pop-up book of green sprawling mountains. Treetops of an endless variety, from deciduous pines to smaller shrubbery, all blended together in shades of green as endless as the ocean and disappeared into the horizon in much the same way.

  After a while I said, “Jeff, I know this is going to sound weird, but could you leave me alone for a few minutes?”

  “No worries, you were cramping my style anyway. I’ll do a little roaming,” Jeff said, walking back down the steps.

  I pulled out my iPod nano and turned it to my painting playlist. The list was full of soft, melancholy melodies that helped me focus. At random, Tan Dun’s “For the World” from the Hero soundtrack began to play. Talk about serendipity. The long, drawn-out violin notes were as epic as the view in front of me, but embodied an undertone similar to my internal feelings of fear and sadness. Fierce, yet humble, the notes came at me strong but never sought to overwhelm me.

  As the drums were introduced, signaling the beginning of battle, I walked up a few more flights of stairs to a second plateau. Slowly gliding my hand along the wall I caressed the rough and, bumpy stone with my fingertips. Each stone was individually placed by the hands of men, and though their time had come and gone, a legacy remained in this wall that emanated warmth absorbed from the sun. I stopped to look out at the landscape. Then, stretching my fingertips as far as they could reach on either side of me, I leaned forward so my entire torso lay on top of the Wall. Relaxing my neck, I closed my eyes. There was a rolling breeze that I could hear before I felt, and it comforted me the same way the ocean did, by being constant. The sounds of waves crashing and winds blowing were rhythmic, repeated beats, like breathing.

  The song finished, and I was no closer to finding an answer—or even the right question for that matter—but for the first time since I learned I was going blind, I felt calm. I had read that in Thailand, monks walked barefoot for 25 days in meditation over scalding hot roads and rocky surfaces in an effort to purify the land. They were so focused on their task that they ignored their own physical pain and limitations. On a much smaller scale, I noticed that my personal focus on the goal of reaching of top was how I overcame the challenge of climbing hundreds of steps, and for a split second I felt a glimmer of hope that I would be able to work through the challenge of losing my eyesight.

  I lifted myself from the Wall, opened my eyes, and came face to face with Jeff. Leaning easily against the wall with his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder and his Nikon camera strap looped around his neck, he stood watching me.

  He cleared his throat. “Are you one with the wall now?” Jeff asked.

  I smiled. “Did you get any good photos?”

  “I want to show you something,” he said. We walked up and into one of the towers, and Jeff poked his head out of a window and pointed off in the distance. “What do you see?”

  “Umm, the Great Wall?”

  “Remember our green and black snakes?” he said.

  I looked at him and smiled. “Yes,” I said. At the rodeo one year Jeff and I got two toy snakes made out of plastic pieces clipped together so that the body of the snake wiggled about. Returning my gaze to the Great Wall I saw that it snaked through the mountainside with a similar mechanical roughness. On the car ride home that day Jeff kept trying to get his to bite mine and ended up breaking my snake in half. When I cr
ied about it, he gave me his. I had it in my backpack for a week before taking it out to play at the park and forgetting it in the sand.

  “Are you seriously still mad I left it at the park?” I asked.

  “You always were careless with my feelings,” he said, flippantly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m kidding,” he smiled. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  Turning away from the window I rammed my shoulder into the cement, “Ow!” I yelped.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled, rubbing my shoulder.

  “How did you miss the giant stone wall?” he laughed.

  I looked back at the huge wall in front of me and thought, How did I miss that giant wall?

  “Hey, everything alright?” Jeff asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. But I am getting kind of hungry. Do you remember seeing any places around here?”

  “I know the perfect place,” he said with a mischievous smile.

  Two hours later we stood in a Beijing night market. All kinds of animals hung from canopies, on display for eager patrons: fried soft shell crab (not bad), frog legs ready to be fried on kabob sticks (gross), snake, also on a kabob stick (really gross), and live tarantula, again to be deep-fried (absolutely disgusting).

  “That is not exactly what I had in mind,” I said.

  “Oh come on, it’ll be fun. You have to eat whatever I pick and I have to eat whatever you pick.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Whoever pukes first buys drinks.”

  “Deal. And to be a gentlemen I’ll even go first,” Jeff says, untying the bandana from his neck and wrapping it around his eyes.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Just because I have to eat it doesn’t mean I need to see it.”

  “You are a sick human being, Jeff.” This adventurous side of him was new to me, and I found myself amused.

  Handing me his Nikon, he said, “Make sure you get all of this…for my app.”