February 7, A New Year.

It’s almost unrecognizable. Almost un-identifiable. Almost unbelievable. Almost. When the new year comes, the people go. They go home. They go back to their hometowns. Back to where they were grown into the people they are today. They take a break, a rest, a respite from the intense pressure and pace of work to be. Be home. Be with friends. Be with family. Yes, it may seem strange to me that they just go home for a week and watch TV, but who am I to say there must be production involved in a festival. No one, that’s who. For in China, they go home to do what they do. Dumplings, fireworks, red. Red blessings, red envelopes, red everything. Red envelopes that are quite fun on wechat, and I’m sure even more fun in real life when the older folks give you one and that’s where the money’s at. Red to scare away the nian, the bad spirits after cleaning the house to sweep them out. Red blessings around the door. And noise. Loud noises to keep the bad out. Fireworks on all sides, a 360 degree enveloping of the booming sounds that rattle in your chest and the colors and streaks in the sky that don’t let anyone rest. No, not tonight. For tonight begins the year of the monkey. The year that we keep wishing for good fortune, success, luck. They year that we grow and live in expectation of what’s to come. What’s to meet them on this side. But they don’t come back to Beijing until it’s over. So the once insanely fast paced and crowded and busy city is now left a ghost town. Streets empty, stores closed and cleaned out, people gone. It’s almost unrecognizable. Almost un-identifiable. Almost unbelievable. Almost.