A City Fit for a Qing

The first thing that hits you as you enter the Forbidden City is the huge face of Mao staring into the distance above the entry gate. As I pass under the old leader's chin, I meld into the crowd of mainly Chinese as they enter the once taboo estate of emperors past. Amid the mainly brown- and black-clad locals and other Chinese alike, a man carries his young daughter of no more than five or six on his shoulders, her red traditional dress swaying and bobbing with her father's gait, smiling out among the crowd. I wonder what she thinks of the crowd and sights around her. Does she have any idea of the emperors and his massive corps of attendants that once dwelled exclusively, prayed and wrote the future of China within these walls or is just a fun day out with daddy? When her father was a child, the penalty for walking among the temples, grounds and garden was death. Now it is 60 yuan. China is changing.

There is something both humorous and exciting about taking an audio tour of the Forbidden City when it's narrated by Roger Moore, because you could easily picture James Bond hiding among the carved lions and darting among the rocks of the Imperial Garden. It has an air of both danger, elegance and mystery that hits you as you pass through every temple. The history of it is overwhelming, the contributions of the Ming and Qing dynasties creating an air of such superiority and exclusivity that it is hard for me as an American to comprehend. I easily could have spent an entire day there and while Beijing is not short on attractions, I, on the other hand, am short on time and must move on.

Across the street is Jingshan Park, small yet peaceful. Just as I say to myself that there is nothing so special about Jingshan, the soft melody of a flute somewhere above me calls my ear and I push my tired feet up the hill to find two men in a shaded pavilion practicing a happy tune, one after the other. I sit in the corner, relax and listen, while a little boy stares at me in fascination as his mother giggles. And it's here that I must say that the children in China are cute beyond words. They are so photogenic and cheery that I find myself taking almost as many photos of them as I do the regular tourist sights.

Leaving Jingshan I cross the street to big, beautiful Behai, with its drooping cypress trees framing the lake at its center. In the middle of an island in the lake is the White Dagoba Temple, looking out over the rest of the park like a mother protecting its baby. I really like Behai. Llovely displays of art, like the Nine Dragon Screen, ring the lake as couples and teenagers stroll under the hazy, setting sun. A man drawing calligraphy on the ground with a huge brush and a pail of water draws my name and hometown, much to the crowd's delight. Once again, I am the center of attention.

Heading home from Behai, passing the grey outer walls of the Forbidden City, bicycles whizzing past pedaled by tired workers on their way home to have noodles and dumplings with their families, I realize that I've been on my feet for twelve hours. I'm tired, and the Chinese university student who stops to talk to me under Mao's chin, now lit by the soft streetlights that run along the outer southern wall, apologizes as she sees me struggle to stay awake out of politeness and allows me to head back home to crash. What a long but enlightening day.