One of the first people I met in Beijing was Johanna. She is a diplomat from Belgium, but she works at the Luxembourg embassy. The tales of her border crossings with a Luxembourg passport claiming her nationality is Belgian, comparing life stories, and sharing language woes entertained us over a dinner of Mexican food.
She warned me of the seasonal depression that foreigners often suffer from because of the notoriously drab scenery of Beijing. The combination of pollution, heavy cigarette smoke everywhere, and freezing temperatures tends to take the life out of those not accustomed to it.
The drive between New Orleans and Baton Rouge on I-10 is similarly bland. The endless and pock marked highway yields little showmanship. Without comsumer driven billboards and brightly colored stores, there is only the litter to keep one awake while making the drive.
But there is that big splash of red paint on the Bonne Carre Spillway. I always thought some sick cajun murder must have happened there, the murderer marking forever his claim to fame with horrifying and dramatic acrylic wall decoration.
And speckled between the familiar evergreens and swamps are small city-like star-covered abominations. The oil refineries that lace the Mississippi River between the two cities are wonderfully elusive in their function and beauty. The warning lights shine a yellow-orange through the smoke that hangs as heavily as the curtains in Gone with the Wind. I was always strangely attracted to the landscape of vivid green trees and melting gold lights.
The other day, I looked out of my classroom window and realized that it could easily be a black and white photograph. The Chinese flags, once a vibrant red, had faded to grey in the sun. The colorful fall leaves have relented to the wind, leaving only bare branches. The factory style buildings are all painted in a prison-like gunmetal, if painted at all. And the people below were only identifiable by their black circles of hair. Like the weird intensity of black and white photographs and twinkling stars on plastic factories in Louisiana, I was fascinated by the scene.
The pollution is as part of the city as the miles and miles of bus routes and the millions of little black eyes hiding behind ultra-trendy glasses. Nearly every day end is composed of a giant red sun whose rays are diffused to a softness that I had only scene in National Geographic before coming to this part of the world. Nearly every cityscape is softened by the edge-blurring effect of production. Nearly every night sky is tinted pinkish-orange as the lights reflect softly off the ubiquitous cloud of protection/destruction.
There is no risk of this foreigner falling into a long line of depressed expats. I cannot find sadness in something that is infinitely intriguing and somehow quite beautiful. I can, however, wish that the dome of protection didn't block out the warming effects of the sun. But I can find solace in the "National Day for Allowing Everyone to Live Comfortably in their own Houses," which falls on the 15th of this month.
Tomorrow...the heat comes on.
