Prelude to the Journey: When Twelve Yearnings Collide in the Living Room
I. The First Clash Between Broken Gold and Green Tiles
The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the June sunset into diamond-shaped dappled patterns, spreading diagonally across the walnut wood flooring of the living room. Li Xiang's sneakers were rubbing against the edges of these dappled patterns, and the plastic bottle made a soft, clicking sound as he spun it in his palm—this was the third time he had pressed down and bounced back up the pull tab of a Tsingtao beer.
"I vote for Weizhou Island." Ah Jie, with his dreadlocks, pushed his tablet onto the center of the coffee table. The coral reef on the screensaver shimmered with blue-green ripples in the light. "Look at this crystal-clear sea, the underwater visibility is twenty meters. Last year when I was doing research in Semporna..."
"Stop, stop," Lin Wei pushed up her dangling wool felt headband and swiped a new page on A-Jie's tablet. "The stilted houses along the mountain city trails are absolutely amazing. When the morning mist drifts over the Eighteen Steps, the whole city looks like a long ink painting scroll floating in the clouds. I took some time-lapse photos in Chongqing last year, do you want to see them?" Just as she opened her phone's photo album, Zhang Yuan leaned over the sofa armrest, coffee stains spreading into dark brown spots on the cuffs of his bohemian-patterned shirt.
"Can you go diving to see sea turtles on a traditional Chinese ink painting scroll?" Ah Jie slammed his beer bottle on the table, the tremor of the aluminum can shaking the atlas spread out on the coffee table. "The volcanic rock coast of Weizhou Island—at low tide you can find seashells the size of your palm. At night you can pitch a tent and watch the Milky Way; it's a hundred times better than breathing in exhaust fumes in the city."
"But what about the hot pot in the air-raid shelters of Chongqing?" Lin Wei circled the night view of Hongyadong on her phone screen with her index finger. "The light rail that passes through buildings, the old alleyways that climb slopes and hills, and any random hole-in-the-wall restaurant you walk into, all serving the flavors of 3,000 years of Chongqing cuisine in its nine-compartment hot pot. Do you remember, the year before last, when we were eating skewers in Chengdu, Zhang Yuan was so spicy that he drank Beibingyang soda like it was mineral water..."
"That was an accident!" Zhang Yuan interrupted, the sofa springs creaking in protest. "But if we're talking about cultural heritage, I think Xi'an is more suitable. The earthen walls of the Terracotta Army pits are permeated with the smell of history. Last year, I was at the Stele Forest Museum, and my fingers traced Yan Zhenqing's inscriptions. The touch..." He suddenly fell silent because Li Xiang was turning to the Shaanxi page of the atlas, his fingernails leaving white marks on the Huashan topographic map.
II. Grassland Sparks and Snow Mountain Prayer Flags
"You've all gone astray." Chen Mo, who had been curled up in the single sofa, finally put down her crochet hook. A small mountain of light green yarn piled up on her knees. "July in Hulunbuir is paradise. When you ride a horse to chase the sunset, the wildflowers on the grassland can reach up to the horse's belly. My grandmother was an Evenki, and she said that at this time the Morigele River looks like a piece of blue silk crumpled by the wind..."
"Horse riding?" Zhang Yuan's brows furrowed. "Last time I rode a pony in Beidaihe, the horse's rump bounced so hard my tailbone ached for three days. Besides, the grasslands are so cold at night, nothing compares to a barbecue at the beach." He moved closer to A-Jie, as if he could absorb more of the warmth of the sand.
"It's good to be cold," Chen Mo tossed the ball of yarn into the air and caught it again. "Wrapped in a wool blanket, sitting by the campfire, watching the herdsmen play the morin khuur and sing 'Meeting at the Aobao,' sparks floated up into the sky, almost touching the stars. You know, the starry sky on the grassland is different from that at the seaside; the Milky Way is three-dimensional, like someone has scattered diamonds on black velvet..."
"When it comes to starry skies, Tibet is the ultimate romance," Li Xiang suddenly said, his Adam's apple bobbing in the backlight. "Last year, I traveled the Sichuan-Tibet Highway and camped at Namtso Lake. I woke up freezing in the middle of the night, opened the door—" He paused abruptly, his Adam's apple bobbing again, "The entire lake was frozen over, stars were falling into the ice crevices, and the snow-capped peaks of the Nyainqêntanglha Mountains in the distance shone like the forehead of a god."
A-Jie scoffed, "Come on, altitude sickness will be enough to make you suffer. Last time my cousin went to Lhasa, he squatted in Potala Palace Square for half an hour before he dared to stand up. He said when he looked up, the world spun around him, and he thought he saw a Buddha."
"That's because he hasn't adapted well." Li Xiang's knuckles tapped out a drumbeat on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau page of the atlas. "Look at the blue of Yamdrok Lake, it's like... how to say it, it's like countless sapphires fused together. When a boat glides by, the water reflects shattered fragments of the sky. And the debating monks at Tashilhunpo Monastery, when the lamas clap their hands in debate, their red robes blaze like flames in the sunlight..."
"Stop, stop," Lin Wei pressed her thermos against the atlas, the bottom of the cup perfectly covering the Mount Everest marker. "Altitude sickness is no joke. Last time my colleague went to Daocheng, he used three cans of oxygen and still had to be sent down the mountain overnight. Besides, we only have ten days off; going to Tibet is too much of a hassle."
III. Ancient Town Lanterns and Urban Neon Lights
"How about we consider ancient towns in Jiangnan?" Xiaoman, who hadn't spoken until now, suddenly raised her phone. The screen saver was a night view of the Twin Bridges in Zhouzhuang. "Last month I went to Tongli. In the early morning, I watched an old lady making water chestnut cakes by the river. As the awning boats swayed by, the echoes of the Pingtan (a type of storytelling and ballad singing) sung by the boatwoman could be heard drifting into the fried dough stick shops..."
"All ancient towns are the same," Zhang Yuan leaned back on the sofa, the ripped knees of his jeans rubbing against the tassels of the cushions. "Stone-paved roads, gable walls, old ladies selling water chestnut cakes—last time I went to Xitang, the commercial atmosphere was overwhelming, and the bar street was even noisier than Sanlitun."
"That's because you didn't go to the right place." Xiaoman scrolled through her phone's photo album to the Moon Pond in Hongcun. "Look at this crescent-shaped pond. In the early morning, the thin mist rises, and the reflections of the white walls and black tiles are shattered in the water, like someone has crumpled up a traditional Chinese ink painting. We ate stinky mandarin fish at the guesthouse that night, and the owner said the wooden bucket was from the Guangxu era..."
"I still think Shanghai is better." Chen Mo tucked a knitting needle into his lapel. "The Bund's collection of international buildings looks like an epic written in stone during the day, and at night, when the lights come on, it's like countless diamonds embedded in the Huangpu River. And there's the Disney fireworks show; when 'Wish Upon a Star' plays, the fireworks above the castle can turn the night sky into a colorful galaxy..."
"Come on," Ah Jie said, grinding a bottle cap into circles on the coffee table. "With prices in Shanghai, three days in a hotel is enough to rent a sea-view room on Weizhou Island for half a month. Besides, squeezing onto the subway is like fighting a war. Last time I transferred at People's Square, I almost got pushed onto the handrail by the crowd."
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