The Far West: nineteen days in China by Carrie King

wherein i climb the great wall and kill my knee. again. also i buy a t-shirt, supporting socialism with chinese characteristics and also eyesore souvenir stands on the tops of ancient monuments, shame on me.

throughout, the threat of rain sometimes spatteringly fulfilled. never enough to threaten photography, but enough to keep the weather cool and climb-friendly. unlike the foot-tall steps at forty-five degree angles or worse, at least subjectively.

fred noticing me noticing graffiti. 'i like graffiti.' fred directing me to take the path less obvious. i in turn save barry from 'and he climbed forever, 'bove the hills of china, he's the man who never returned...'

barry and i going down, my thoughts move past "mama wouldn't want me to do this" to "maybe i really shouldn't have done this," as my overtaxed calf muscles begin to unpredictably spasm. will i make it? i make it.

then below the postcards that cost more than the t-shirt. i think.

in the afternoon, ming tombs and stone guardian statues along the Secret Way, a rainish afternoon concluding with the First Moment of Idiocy. then the beijing duck dinner, which i thought quite tasty. david's bloomin daisy joke (separate link).

what did we do that evening? recover? I think so; I think that's the night I wrote my Great Wall batch of postcards. yes, it was. wielding my red chop with more enthusiasm than finesse (smooosh).