To Auschwitz 12/08/2021

It is not far from Prague to the south of Poland. It took two hours on the train to the border, then one hour and a half on the bus to the centre of Krakow, Poland. Living in a hostel in Krakow only costs me about 14 euros a night.

Having checked in and put my luggage down, I had nothing else to do other than check on Tripadvisor the one-day tourist group for Auschwitz. This is the main reason why I came to Krakow. I compared and then selected a random group for only 30 euros. 

Then I scheduled the pickup with the driver at 10 o'clock the next morning. This tour will last for one whole day. I already started to worry about the lunch for tomorrow. 

I woke up at 8 o'clock the next morning. I took my time strolling to a cafe recommended by an Iranian guy who sleeps under my bunker bed. He said the omelette there is amazing. This cafe is located on a broad and quiet avenue. Shortly after I sat at a desk outside, a young waitress passed me a menu. I ordered an omelette with Italian tomato sauce and basilic and a cup of double espresso. The coffee was served quickly. I took a sip. It's fucking terrible. However, since the omelette wasn't served and I had nothing else to do, I had to keep sipping it.

I sat and waited for 45 minutes before realizing that I had waited for so long. Slightly annoyed, I walked in to check with the waitress, whose response was, of course, something like "The dish will be ready shortly". 

Another 5 minutes passed and I finally got my omelette. What a giant golden mass with ketchup and mayonnaise squeezed zig-zag on the surface, and a few basilic leaves beside! I cut a small piece and sent it to my mouth -- oh my god, it was fucking grease and heavy. I needed some extra ketchup to help me swallow it. But before long, all the ketchup was finished, and there was still a huge piece to consume. I didn't remember how I finished the last bite, but I did remember I paid my bill with a poker face -- partly due to the bad service, partly due to the sick. Then I checked my watch, there's still half an hour left for my scheduled time to Auschwitz. I felt blessed that I didn't have to run back to my hostel at the risk of throwing up halfway. 

The driver arrived on time in front of my hostel, but the minivan kept going around Krakow to pick up other fellow tourists. They are a Latvian family of three, two young Flemish girls, and a skinny Bulgarian woman. I didn't talk to any of them in the two-hour ride, yet the Bulgarian lady in the front seat didn't stop for a minute to chat with the driver about, for instance, how unfriendly and racist the Hungarians are, and how she thought of other European countries. I was lucky that I could filter out most of her gibberish by putting on my headphones and staring at the unmemorable scenery outside. 

At around 11 o'clock we arrived at the parking lot of Auschwitz which was already packed with tourists from all over the world, and queues extended from the entrance. Luckily, the driver said we didn't have to queue with the tickets that he was about to claim for us. So we waited quietly. Meanwhile, I should have started to think about what to eat for lunch, but the omelettes in my stomach stopped me from doing so. 

In a few minutes, the driver came back with the tickets and led us to meet our tour guide, who is a tall Polish woman in her middle age, holding a sun umbrella, wearing a worn-out outdoor vest, a grey dress, and a pair of outdoor slippers.  She greeted us briefly without any noticeable facial expressions and then distributed the audio guides and earphones. After the channel was tuned in, we walked to the fare gates, inserted our tickets, reclaimed our tickets, and passed the security gate. Now we were genuinely in Auschwitz. 

As much as I have seen the gate of Auschwitz a thousand times in films and photos, being there and witnessing it seemed strange to me: for a second I passed it for that of an entertainment park, yet the ironic German line above dragged me back to reality. *Albeit Macht Frei*. I saw from the distance that the tour guide's lips started to move, so I tuned my channel again. A flow of monotone English with frictive consonants came to my ears, talking about some basic introduction to Auschwitz. When the intro was done, we walked past the gate and started to visit each site of the concentration camp.

We begin by visiting the dormitories. They were just like the dormitories built inside factories:  rectangular, two-story buildings in red bricks. Yet they are dormitories in Auschwitz. When I walked inside them, I was surprised that they were renovated and transformed into exhibition halls, and all the rooms are interconnected with a single-way itinerary. So we were led by our tour guide sneaking to different rooms, viewing photocopies printed on huge boards with small legends below. I only remember a photo referring to a little girl who later recognized herself as an old lady and thusly testified to the crime of Nazi. 

Then we stepped into a spacious room at the end of which a bulk of dark objects was sealed behind a glass wall As we approached, the content behind them became clearer. A pile of mustard gas containers. Likewise, the room next door exhibited a huge pile of rubber shoes behind a huge glass wall illuminated by blue lights. There's no way that I didn't think about Christian Boltanski at the sight of these installations, but I didn't know who took the credit for originality. 

While I was still thinking, the tour guide had already teleported herself to the exit of the hall, waiting for us to follow up. We were then rushed and led to the staircase to the second floor, where many other visitors from other groups were swarming down. That staircase reminded me of my primary school. The rooms on the second floor were quite similar to those down below, and I don't recall anything special. 

Even though the interior of the dormitories didn't present any trace of their past, I could picture in my mind how the prisoners walked out of the building and how they felt. It must be painful and desperate, but I COULDN'T feel exactly how painful and desperate they were. As I was still doing my best to emphasize, the cold voice of our tour guide came along, reminding us that we were about to visit the gas chambers. 

I didn't step into the gas chamber other than take a glimpse inside. They look exactly like what I've seen in films. At that moment, our tour guide told us the story that the German officer in charge had poisoned his wife and daughters before the Allied forces liberated this place. The Bulgarian woman shouted out: "This is terrible! Terrible!" In fact, she never stopped asking questions and expressing her regrets all along the way, but this time she evidently got more resonance from the audience. She looked relieved and satisfied. 

Having finished our visit to the main camp of Auschwitz, I was informed that there was another concentration camp to go to:  Auschwitz II-Birkenau. But before setting off, we had about one hour of free time in between to have lunch. I didn't even have a slight appetite because of the god damn omelette that I ate early that morning. So I went to the bookshop of Auschwitz. There were full of survivors' memoirs, WWII history books, and academic studies of the Nazis.  They didn't interest me that much. 

Time's up, we should continue our visit. Our driver went back to the gathering point and had some small talks with us, asking about how we felt so far. I pretended to not hear the question. 
It only took 15 minutes to arrive at Auschwitz II-Birkenau camp. The driver parked the car at a distant parking lot, so we had to walk 10 minutes to that famous gate with a railway stretching through. The August sun in southern Poland got me burnt, and I really regretted not having brought a cap with me. At this moment, the driver suddenly said to the Bulgarian woman that it was definitely excruciating to lead a group during winter when the temperature could drop to minus ten-celsius degrees; but now with global warming, it was less cold in recent years. I didn't feel any cooler after hearing this conversation.

Though I deliberately walked slower, the driver finally caught me up and asked how I felt. I knew he was asking how I felt about the concentration camp. 
I said, in the tone of the Bulgarian woman: 
"It's terrible!" 
"Yeah, it's terrible, terrible". The driver seemed satisfied with my answer. 

Our tour guide had waited for a long time at the gate. She was now equipped with an extra pair of sunglasses and a sun cap. Unlike me, she was definitely ready for this sort of weather. She led us into the gate. A corrugated green field unfolded itself into the distance until a wide range of bushes. Some untouched dormitories and remnants of buildings were dispersed in it. Then the tour guide spoke on and off as we walked along the railway and into the dormitories: 

"... this is the second site of the concentration camp...for the convenience of transportation, the railway was built inside the camp, so the prisoners could get to work once they were discharged from the train...  it was cold in the winter, and many prisoners only had a thin shirt, so many of them froze to death... what you are seeing, the cabins, are actually their dormitories, but many of them were dismantled after the liberation..."

The sound of tour guide was storming into my head, my skin was burning, my vision was blurring and my mind was in a mess. I still couldn't believe I was ACTUALLY in this field, a historical field where many many miseries occurred. I tried to think about the meaning of my being here and associate myself with this passage of history, or at least try to feel more pain. I had an urge to take pictures of everything before my eyes and share them on my social media, or with my friends who would never set foot in this place; yet I found these pictures were not suitable for sharing, which is somehow equivalent to "showing off". I thought of my classmates in art schools, who tried so hard to conjure up something deep and sophisticated for their grand contemporary art projects. I don't want to be a part of them, since at that time I had made up my mind to quit art for good. So I didn't share the pictures. 

The final thing to visit is the Birkenau camp is a series of monuments written in multiple languages. I passed them by and spent some time reading those that I could understand. That's something about peace. As we all stepped down from the monuments, the tour was officially over. Our tour guide thanked us for spending time with her, in her monotone and cold voice. And at this farewell moment,  I suddenly recalled what she said somewhere during the visit, explaining why she worked as a tour guide in the concentration camp: because her grandma was in this camp.  But now it is just a job, isn't it?

I was completely knackered and felt a bit carsick on the way back to Krakow. It must be the omelette I ate that morning. The good side of carsick was that I didn't catch anything the Bulgarian woman said to the driver. She was the first one to get off. When she closed the door and walked away, two Flemish girls behind me giggled. They then asked the driver about the things to do, places to visit, and food to eat in Krakow. The driver happened to mention pork steak, which was exactly what I ate too much the evening before. I then realized that I hadn't eaten anything for 10 hours. 

I got out of the car in the centre of Krakow and then ate a bowl of beef noodles at a Taiwanese restaurant. That was delicious. Stuffed, I strolled back to my hostel along the high streets with warm sun rays from the remains of the day caressing my back neck. 

As I returned to my room, the Iranian guy was packing the souvenirs he bought from different places that day. He was excited to think about to whom these gifts would be given. While I was hesitating to tell him the cafe and omelette he recommended was crap, he asked where I went. 

I said Auschwitz. 
Then he asked me how I felt.
I said terrible.

Techpolitan life

Today I went to a Tim Horton’s for a coffee drink.

When I was standing in front of the counter, all the baristas were occupied, so I waited. Soon, one of them was liberated and moved to the counter, yet this lady with a hygienic mask on didn’t seem to notice my existence. I waved my hand.

There's a reaction from her. She extended her hand across the cash register to a QR code glued on the table, as she finally uttered a phrase:
“Scan this code to order”.
“Can’t you take my order now”? I said.
“Yes, but there’s a discount if you order online”, She said.

Pissed yet allured by the discount, I ended up scanning the code with one of the most popular payment apps in China. I just want a hot Americano. Added to the cart, click pay now, oh, a dialogue popped up asking if I want to join the membership programme. No. Then I come down to the check, noticing that the final price is still original. I asked the barista where is the promised discount.

“Oh, if you join our membership program for free, your first order is half-priced”.

Damn. I should have asked. Since I couldn’t find the entry point for joining the membership program again, I paid the order and surprisingly got a 0.5 yuan reduction out of nowhere.

As my order was done, I excused myself from the queue and went to occupy a seat on the ground floor. There’s only one available next to the glass wall, and the table is full of garbage left by the previous customer. I took a seat waiting for my coffee. A few minutes later, a robotic radio sound came along: “Customer number 3567, your order is ready”.

Is that me? What’s my number? Oh, it must be on my phone but I was too lazy to check again. Luckily the counter was within my eyesight, and I saw a cup of coffee standing there. It must be mine. I even took a look at the receipt underneath the cup while taking the coffee away: I was actually 1467. Good to know.

As I was writing this article on my phone, a young girl dressed in a yellow dress suddenly squatted in front of me. Shocked and embarrassed, I then realized a glass wall was separating us, and I was sure it was not one-way mirrored glass. She was looking for something in her handbag — it’s a camera. Then she, remaining squatted, flipped over the display screen, and started to take selfies, with her lens pointing in my direction. Some young boys two meters away smoking near a trash bin didn't cause her any cringe, and neither did I. I was for a second worried about being taken in her selfies.

And I noticed there’s another group of girls standing next to the selfie taker, but I didn’t have any evidence that they were friends, since all of them were immersed in their phone screens, with heads tilted down. But later on, they departed together, heads down to the phones.

I don’t know how to take in everything I have just observed, as I was still typing fast and furious on my phone with my head tilted down, back scooped like a spoon.

Lady on Heels

It’s 6 p.m. on Friday. Normally there shouldn’t be many people at the metro station, but today it’s an exception.

The train came. Doors opened. People stepped out and stepped in. While I was rushing to the staircase of the train, I accidentally kicked the shoe of a muslin girl. I was panicked. I was worried about quarrelling with her, and with another muslin girl on her side, who is evidently her bestie. But before anything happened, I had already reached the second floor. I felt sorry for not saying sorry, or pardon in French to her. Or do I really feel sorry, since it wasn’t even a kick, but more like a mild friction?

While I was immersed in my reflection, a tall white woman halted halfway on the staircase, turned around, took off her headphones, and said “Excuse me?” to a fat black woman on the ground floor. Unlike me, she wasn’t apologizing, but asking for an explanation. I could tell the tone wasn’t friendly, but I had no clue what had happened between them.

All of a sudden, the train moved. The tall white woman almost fell over. She was swift enough to hold the handrail on time and then soundly walked onto the second floor, even with heels on.

As the tall white woman went upstairs, I saw and heard many people downstairs laughing. The two muslin girls were the most noticeable. They laughed so hard that they headed against each other to keep their bodies straight and steady.

Then I saw the fat black woman constantly peering over her shoulders in my direction. I suppose she was hunting that tall white woman, who was typing on her phone with her headphones on. Then she turned around and laughed at a black man sitting on the staircase:


“Hahahaha, didn’t you hear what I said to her? Lady, you have bumped into me…”

“Hahahah that lady on heels, she almost fell over, didn’t you see that?”

“Oh la la, Lady on Heels, oh la la...”

“Hehehehehe…”

The fat black woman got off one stop before mine. Before leaving, she said briefly in my direction: “Goodbye, Lady on Heels“. I turned around and checked the tall white woman again — she was still busy with her phone, with headphones on. It was a really nice pair of headphones. Noise cancelling.

Doors closed.

The muslin girls were still laughing. I wasn’t sure if they had had any eye contact with the fat black woman before she got off.

记忠正 04/15

睡不着，浑身难受，不知怎么就想起了远方的一个朋友。

第一次认识他是在小学四年级。那会正好换了班级，新老师新同学，我也是费了些时间才慢慢了解到，班里有个朝鲜来的同学呢。

当时在我印象里，朝鲜就是个人人穿着类似和服一样的传统衣服，戴着高帽，平时经常吃人参喝鸡汤的国家呢。但后来看乒乓球赛，经常看中国队打朝鲜队，听老妈说：“朝鲜很穷呢，运动员们好几个人喝一瓶水”。我将信将疑。

他叫李忠正，比我们大两岁，个子也略高一些，长得浓眉大眼，总是很紧张地抿着嘴。他还有个妹妹，叫李智慧，俩人差了几岁，但是同一天出生的，不可思议。忠正后来给我传了她在朝鲜广场上的照片。

我们最初熟识是因为篮球吧。四年级全班男生都迷上打球，下课了经常一窝蜂地去操场上瞎投，他也来和我一起打。他运球极快，上篮迈起三步能把我们都过个干净，一旦玩起全场更是4个人都堵不住他。至于赛跑什么的更不用说了，全班都被吓到了，不一会又都转为喜：这下运动会肯定能拿第一了！！这是我们第一次体验开挂的感觉。

他中文说的好，让我很长一段时间内都没觉出来他是外国人，只是上语文课朗读能觉得他有点吃力，可我们谁都不在乎。

他画画得也好。语文老师当时布置过一个作业，让我们画心目中的红树林。第二天老师展示了他的画，远远看去非常写实，仔细一看，竟是用水笔勾勾点点画成的。我当时看着，用铅笔在本子上试了一下，觉得肯定能画的比他好，现在再想，当时真是自信的吓人啊。

音乐课，老师让唱歌，他不太会唱，问老师能不能唱韩语的。全班当然大喜过望，听他红着脸，张大嘴，一点头一点头地唱《小白船》。谁都听不懂，但都觉得唱的真好听。从此这首歌都成了班级文娱活动的保留节目，当然他每次都唱的极认真，群众反响也都很热烈。

就这么过了一年半，五年级了，突然得知：他要回国了，不能和我们一起上学了。大家都很难过，尤其是我们几个一起打球的，特别舍不得。临别的时候我们一群男生跑到他家楼下，合影，虽然难过得快掉眼泪，但总觉得以后还会再见的。他给我们每个人都留了个礼物，我的是一个本子，写的是：祝你天天快乐。

我们就这样慢慢接受了他转走的事实，很平淡。唯独在篮球联赛中爆冷输给一个很弱的班时才想到他。

就这么过了几年，上初中那会，某天，突然接到一个qq讯息，一看是忠正发来的。他说他要回来了，想和几个好朋友聚一聚。我很高兴他能找到我。然后在一个晚上，毫无征兆地，听见他和几个小学同学在楼下喊我。我冲下楼，几个人在地下停车场疯玩。

后来在校园突然看到他的身影。很吃惊，又很欢喜，以为我们又能做同学了。但最终他从初三开始上，和一群比我大很多的人一起玩，勾肩搭背，据说还经常去网吧。有时很想去找他一起出去玩，可每次都遇到他和那堆朋友，就躲开了。

过了一个学期吧，突然发觉好久没见到他了。去问和他很熟的一个小学同学，得知他又回朝鲜了。

高一，某天，突然又接到他的qq讯息，说他要回来了，上大学，在烟大。这么多年了突然接到他的消息，让我惊慌失措。我思考了好久才找到合适的词语，去问候，去寒暄，尽量显得自己热情。同时发送信息前还自己读一遍：写的应该挺通俗易懂吧？

那会学习也忙，自然也没什么机会和他聚，只是经常看他发空间动态，大多是抱怨考试，感谢同学之类的话。他也偶尔评论我的画，说：“你小子画的真是越来越好了啊，你给我的画我都留着呢”。 看到这，只是觉得说不出来的难过和感动。

十一的时候，我四处联络同学和老师，打算一起去公园聚聚。我们几个都到了，唯独忠正没来，让我们都担心他不认路了。我们正聚堆聊天呢，就听见一个熟悉的声音。是他！

三年没见，忠正留起了小发型，穿着衬衣西裤，戴着亮晃晃的手表，一表人才，十分精神。我们依旧像以前那样，大笑，回忆小时候的事，唯一的不同，就是我们都比他高了。

玩够了，我们一起找了个地方，铺上布，野餐。吃了一顿，烧烤都吃光了。我们俩就去买。走到烧烤摊，不等我开口，忠正就上前去问价，要数，还不忘喊一句：“给挑好点的”！声音沙哑，语调沉稳，能听出一些口音。啊，他是朝鲜人啊！

我俩拿着烧烤，往回走。我不记得和他聊了什么，只记得我努力地组织自己的语言，使其连贯通顺。那会金正日刚好去世，我还很想问问国内什么情况，想了想还是没问，就这么回去，把烧烤分给大家吃。

聚完，各自坐车回家。我们坐一辆车，我先下车后发现我们洗出来的合影全被我拿走了，于是赶紧qq告诉他以后找个机会给你，他说不急。

回去以后把拍的照片都整理好，传给老师同学。老师跟我说：这次聚会再看你们，有几个都不像学生样了，感觉有点陌生了呢，但实际上都是孩子啊。

之后一段时间看了个脱北者的纪录片，看的很郁闷，很压抑，原来朝鲜是这样的。

某晚，刚下了自习回家，很困，准备睡觉，突然接了个电话，是忠正。他说他要回国了，这次非常紧急，迫不得已，没有时间见面分别了 。我听了一时语塞，说了很多不舍的话，心里不是滋味。俩人回忆了很多小时候的片段，他语速非常快，说咱俩这关系，这种事肯定得通知你，我受宠若惊。临挂电话，忠正说了这么一句：“哎我很羡慕你们的学习环境，一定要好好学习啊。”

听完我就如同被雷击一般，以后说的什么都不记得了，只是最后挂了电话，盯着地板呆坐了半个点。

我知道，这估计就是最后一别了，以后没机会再见了。

以后看到很多朝鲜的新闻，总是会隐隐约约想起：啊，我有个老友在那呢。再联系他在中国的一切，都让人觉得很不真实。

忠正，只愿你过得好。

Nostalgia 03/01/2024

Before I sat on the long-distance bus to Riga, I had just finished my short trip to Helsinki and Tallinn. I was even accompanied by my friend, who was intrigued by my alluring descriptions of the Nordic and Baltic sceneries and folklore. We spent a good time together, drinking fantastic local beers and vodka, struggling to find our beds in a hostel. But then she had to fly back to Paris for work. I found myself travelling solo again, which is the mode I have been accustomed to.

So let it be! Travelling solo to Riga, Latvia! Before choosing Riga as the final destination of my short trip around the Baltic Sea, I did not expect much. I knew Latvia is one of the three Baltic Countries along with Estonia and Lithuania. Since I have visited Estonia, why not continue to try this Baltic combo?

I also knew in Latvia they produce nice vodka, which is acclaimed by my alcoholic friend, as the best in the world; Russian and Polish ones even need to step aside. I also knew two NBA players from Lativa: Dāvis Bertāns and Kristaps Porziņģis. Porziņģis is much more famous and skilful, but I prefer Bertāns, simply because he played for the San Antonio Spurs. Nevertheless, I have no interest in visiting their birth cities or any other places they have been to. They are just a connection I strenuously built with Latvia that will give me more reasons to travel. I hope.

When the bus was driving in the countryside in Estonia to Latvia, I didn’t pay too much attention to the view over the window. It was sunny that day. The sun's rays projected through the foliage of the forests, onto the green fields that stretched into the distance. It was beautiful, but having watched it for three hours, I inevitably got bored. I started to check my moving location on Google Maps, to see how far I was to the border of Latvia. When the bus was about to run across the border, I screen-captured my Google Maps. Here I am, Latvia.





The view of Latvia was no different from that of Estonia — as I was jumping to this easy conclusion, the weather turned grey. I supposed it was a huge cloud, but it turned out to be a weather front from which a small bus couldn’t escape. Everything became gloomy and murky since then, except for some small colourful houses across the woods. The depressing feeling got even stronger when the bus was approaching the outskirts of Riga. Many groups of shabby buildings in concrete loomed beneath the viaducts of the highway. They were evidently inherited from the Soviet Union, not from the modern architectural experiment of Le Corbusier. This building style is not strange to me, because I grew up in this type of building, yet in China.

In China, when these buildings get old and corrupted, they will be repainted into high-saturated colours such as orange and yellow. I used to think this way of rejuvenation was cheap and corny, but now I know at least they boost my morale. No building is more suffocating than a brutalism Khrushchevka in drab colours and being devastated by age.

Another evident architecture in the suburb was a rocket-like tower, the Riga Radio and TV Tower. I was surprised that it is the tallest tower in the European Union; what’s unsurprising, it was built in the Soviet Union period. It reminded me of the gigantic white tower in the anime “The Place Promised in Our Early Days” by Makoto Shinkai, even though at that time I hadn’t watched it but only knew its setting. I couldn’t help creating a lunatic story such as “aliens left their spaceship on the Earth which connects two worlds”. In the context of an apocalyptic wasteland, I found the existence of Khrushchevkas making more sense.



I got off the bus in front of a marketplace which resembled a warehouse. The rain became less heavy, so I didn’t take out my rainbow-coloured umbrella, which was given by my Dutch friend. I hesitated when receiving it, but she managed to persuade me that it was merely an umbrella. Functionality over symbolism. Nevertheless, I was a little worried about being mistaken as homosexual here, for I didn’t know how well the LGBT groups were received in Latvia.

My hostel was situated in the centre of Old Riga next to a rectangular square which, according to my poor knowledge, could only be found in low-land countries and Germany. I wasn’t totally wrong. I learned from Wikipedia that Latvia was under the influence of Prussia for ages before being ruled by Russia. So it was quite natural that the buildings here are German-like — I said so to save myself from the agony of being ignorant.

When I got into the hostel, I was received by an Asian-looking receptionist with a discernible Russian accent in her English. Her presence made me feel at home, given at that time, I hadn’t been able to go back to China for three years, due to the expensive flight ticket and the absurd confinement policy. According to this policy, upon my arrival in any of the three designated big cities, such as Beijing, I will be locked into a hotel room for two weeks. Two weeks later, if I return to my home city, I will be locked in another hotel room for another week. Only after this twenty-one-day detention can I move freely in my home country. Luckily, this policy was abolished when the invincible COVID-19 finally infected almost all the Chinese.

My bed was in a wooden container. Looking out of the window, it was still raining. I hesitated between two options: lying on the bed and watching some silly videos; or going outside without any plan. Since it was only one o’clock pm, I went to the square that could be seen from my room. It was not the biggest one amongst the others, but there was a cathedral on the far end and a solemn building around the corner whose front reminded me of a bank. I couldn’t be sure, because I couldn’t read Latvian! But the next minute, I was stopped by a stout man who kept his head low. He said something to me, which was intelligible, but not in English. It was in German: he asked if I could give him one euro.

So the first local I talked to (other than the receptionist), was a beggar. This situation had occurred to me once in Krakow, Poland; but that time the Polish beggar spent five minutes to make his petition clear. Of course in English. Upon hearing my rejection, he grumbled a lot before getting lost. But this time, I really wanted to give this Latvian man one euro, but I happened to have no coins with me. I replied with a simple“Nein”, whose tonality seemed too harsh as a refusal. As I struggled to formulate one more sentence in German to express my regret, he already walked away.

Then I went to see the most popular tourist attraction in Riga (according to Tripadvisor) — the city hall of Riga. Luckily it is near the river, so I still had other things to do after visiting it. To my surprise, the Daugava River reminded me of the Yalu River between China and North Korea. I thought of two characteristics they have in common. The first is that they both have a steel bridge across the broad river, which is also similar to those in Cologne and Düsseldorf; the second one is the deserted view of their opposite river banks, where factories are more discernible than other small buildings whose true functions remained unknown. But for the record, the view of North Korea across the Yalu River was definitely more sorrowful.



Having nothing to do in the downtown, I decided to have a lunch. Due to my tight budget and the unexpected inflation in Baltic Countries back then, I went to a buffet restaurant. I took something like fried chicken legs, grilled vegetables, and of course boiled potatoes. They were tasty, but I didn’t know if they were the food that local people would actually cook and eat. So in the evening, I went to a local restaurant that serves Latvian food. But what I saw on the menu didn’t differ from the German food, so I merely ordered a juicy pork steak. When the waitress took my order, I could feel her despise: That’s it? That’s all you have ordered? Later on, she threw the bread basket on my table— I mean, threw. But I didn’t say anything, because losing my temper would only make me a more pathetic loser. Fifteen minutes later, the food was eventually served. It wasn’t terrible, or impressive; it was just a meal. After having finished the last crumb of bread, I hailed the waitress to check, and it took her another ten minutes to arrive. When she ripped out the receipt from the POS machine, her poker face was even more deadpan.

It was around eight o’clock in the evening when I finished my dinner. The rain finally halted, but the sky remained grey. I went back to the square next to my hostel, having no further plans at all. When I arrived, only ten people were walking by. I shook my head and then opened my eyes again, but the view didn’t change a bit. I was for a minute engulfed by a sense of loneliness. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I always felt at ease in such a silent surrounding. I decided to take another stroll in Old Riga. I did find something more. I found out with sheer joy that Belgian pubs were quite numerous. I suddenly knew what I should do that evening: have a nice beer. So I walked back to the square.

As I was about to turn onto the road to my hostel, a sound of a cello reached out to me from the distance. I stepped back to see where it came from — it was from the cathedral on the far end of the square, from a man, who put his bonnet on the ground while playing. I was drawn nearer and nearer to the cathedral as the solo playing became more lacrimoso. Or was the music itself really lacrimoso? I didn’t know much about cello works, so after having ruled out Bach and Elgar, I had no idea at all. I had music identification software on my phone, yet I hesitated to get closer to pick up the sound because I had no coins except a bank card. I started to look for ATM machines on Google Maps, but the closest one was four hundred meters away. Would the musician remain there on my way back? Was it appropriate to give him ten euros, which is the smallest bill from the ATM machine? My mind became more messy with the cello playing. Eventually, I stood still in the middle of the square, watching that musician with his back to me fifty metres away, playing cello. There was another audience, who was much closer to the musician. I saw him lowering his body to the bonnet. His action even made me more ashamed to step any further. Muxin once said that music is fragile in the wind (outside), but I opposed that the wind has definitely brought coldness and desperation to it. Having stood there for ten minutes, I found myself unable to hear it anymore. It was too sad. So I began to move my feet in the direction of my hostel, even though I found myself halted every five steps until the music became inaudible.

I walked into a pub next to my hostel and ordered two glasses of local black beer. They were so good. It was only after getting drunk in no time that I suddenly realized I hadn’t eaten too much that night, otherwise I would have stayed sober longer. It didn’t matter. I managed to go upstairs to my bed and lay down. I knew a deep and heavy sleep was waiting for me.


03/01/2024

Some thoughts on The Boy and the Heron

Prologue

It was easy to conclude in the first 15 minutes of this movie that our protagonist Mahito, has been in a state of trauma that amounts to her mother’s death in a conflagration. Another consequential trauma is the fact that his father married her aunt, who looks like his birth mother, yet isn’t. 

Now we have had everything needed to develop a typical storyline of how a boy deals with the trauma of losing her mother. Yet as the story unfolds, it doesn’t quite fit my first conjecture of the story. I find myself overflown with its intricacy and seemingly abrupt plot-twisting, which makes my final conclusion shaky and incoherent. Here I break down the story into four parts to discuss what the true theme that Miyazaki Hayao wants to express.

Failed masculinity

The story takes place in an old Maison that belongs to the family of Mahito’s mother, where the members of the household are female. They are old and morbid, apart from the young and beautiful hostess, aka Mahito’s stepmother, Natsuko. In the scene where the old female servants make their first appearance, they are depicted like night animals who scattered after seeing someone more powerful coming. This depiction is even more enhanced when they swarm to a suitcase full of canned food, meanwhile, in the background, an old man is left alone dying on the floor. His death is only witnessed by another old man, not by the old ladies who are more interested in fresh food. Doesn’t it remind you of the scene of vultures or mice favouring fresh food over a cadaver? 

In such a gloomy place, Natsukor’s robustness and braveness are dramatically highlighted when she saves Mahito from the hazardous lure of the heron by shooting an arrow. Yet, we find soon later, that this bow was hung behind a man’s suit when she is sick lying in her room after that clash with the heron. Her room is sumptuous yet murky, which hints at the true cause of her “illness” —pregnancy. 

Right after this visit, Mahito is inspired to make an arrow to cope with the heron, because the wooden sabre he used was useless. But the curious thing is, this sober was broken twice: once it was destroyed by the heron; the second time it collapsed into crumbs as Mahito tried to take it out of the closet. 

Given the sabre’s evident allusion to masculinity, can we take Mahito’s twice-shattered sabre as a total defeat of masculinity, albeit premature, in reality, and in his subconscious? Wait, there is even a third defeat when Mahito’s father brandishes his real sabre to ferocious parrots flying out of the gate of the Underworld. He doesn’t manage to hurt any of them, for the parrots become benign in the real world. The masculinity failed again. It is evident throughout the story that masculinity is not the key to dealing with the main problem of this story, then what is it? The arrow? What does the arrow present?

The Heron

In the beginning, the heron is portrayed as a haunting and creepy animal who speaks with a human-like mouth that intermittently sticks out of his beak. His tentative has been to lead Mahito to a mysterious tower. Despite the mistrust and hostility towards the Heron, Mahito is guided to the tower but fails to enter because of the blocked entrance. Why does he fail? Let’s compare it with the second time when he succeeded. The only difference is that this time, Mahito was not only led by the heron, but also by Natsuko who disappears in the woods. He follows up and finds the entrance to the tower.  It is the desire to get his stepmother back that enables him to enter the tower. 

In the tower, Mahito manages to shoot down the heron with his handmade bow and arrow that is fletched with the heron’s feather. Thereafter the heron shows his human body under the feather skin — an ugly man with a gigantic nose. Why the real body of the heron is revealed in the tower? The first possibility is that the tower is another world, so the revelation of the heron emphasises the essence of the tower: an entrance to the Underworld. The second possibility is simply that it happened to be in this place where Mahito has the chance to try out his new weapon. Don’t forget, as the story goes on when Mahito needs the heron-man to turn back into heron so he can fly, the remedy is to fill the hole on the beak with the same material as his arrow. 

It's better for the doer to undo what he has done; Mahito has to repair what he has damaged with the very thing that causes the damage. Here the heron seems a malleable creature dictated by Mahito. Can we take a guess that the heron is no other than Mahito’s subconscious or detached psyche?

I developed this doubt when the heron presents to Mahito, the simulacrum of his birth mother lying on a couch, who melts down into the water as Mahito touched her. Yet, facing such an appalling scene, Mahito doesn’t get hysterical and behave traumatised(Yes, I am referring to Shinji in EVA). Why is he so indifferent? This is a question that awaits an answer. 

The heron’s action was later reproached by his master, who asked the heron to do nothing else than guide Mahito to the tower, to explore the underworld. So is the heron merely a minion of his master, who is later on revealed as Mahito’s great-great granduncle? Maybe not.

The Underworld

There are many magical and fantasy stuff in this world: ancient fish, ferocious pelicans and parrots, ghosts, fire and oval-like creatures. But what is this underworld’s essence? How do things work here? The first remarkable indication is that Mahito met a young robust woman who is no other than Kiriko, the old servant, who also got into the underworld with Mahito. In this world, she was still taking care of Mahito without any evident motivation, just like the little wooden statues of all the other old servants, who were laid around Mahito to protect him. They are still being servants. Another thing to notice is that Kiriko once asked Mahito to not touch the wooden statues of the servants. But Mahito touched them and even took away the statue of Kiriko, but nothing happened. 

Later on, we learn that this world is built by Mahito’s great-great uncle, who is also the master of the heron, and this conceptual world is on the verge of destruction. Yet, as the creator of this world, he leaves the fate of this world to Mahito, who has no intention to keep it. So in the end, everything is going into what Mahito wishes for. Everything happens so easily in the story. It is even fair to second guess if his great-great uncle is also a part of himself, let alone the heron. 

If everything was dictated by Mahito’s will in this world, can I conclude that this world works similarly to a fantasy, but it is not technically a fantasy? To verify this, we need to see how he gets along with his stepmother and his birth mother here. 

Mother 

Even though we know very early that the girl called Mimi is the sister of Mahito’s stepmother, which means this girl is Mahito’s mother; but it is almost at the end of the movie that we can be finally sure of this not-so-surprising fact. 

However, if we look back on the plot with this fact in mind, it is hard to understand how the birth mother can lead her son to search for his stepmother. Shouldn’t Mahito recognise her right away and forget about the stepmother? But the story didn’t go this way. As he called Natsuko mother, the world changes, all the white stripes are blown aloft to separate them. They are breaking a taboo, of forgetting who the real mother is. But Mahito didn’t regret it. He still wants to go back with her stepmother. 

Nevertheless, before coming back to the real world, Mahito asked Kimi if she wanted to go as well. Is this a genuine question, or merely a question out of courtesy and regretfulness? Just listen to what Mahito said, what an absurd excuse: what does it mean that she needs to stay here so that Mahito can be born; and she was born in the fire, so she wouldn’t be afraid of the conflagration in the far future? Is this story by now becoming that of “changing the present by going back to the past”? Of course not, we must believe this refusal is a way to make Mahito feel unguilty returning to his real world so that he can be with his new mother Natsuko. 

This is, in the end, what Mahito has understood from the book his mother left for him: What kind of life do you want to live? To live is to leave behind the past and to embrace the reality. 

Now we can understand why Mahito is so indifferent to a melt-away simulacrum of his mother. By that time he has begun to let her mother go. He doesn’t mind seeing her mother die again, just as he didn’t hesitate to go back to the real without her. 

Conclusion:

This story is about how a boy manages to accept his stepmother by forgetting his birth mother. 

01/01/2024