Taxi drivers are omnipresent in Beijing, malnourished and cruising for bleeding meat. Some don’t like foreigners. Some love deceptively milking the ignorant foreigner teat. Most of them are efficient. All of them honk like rabbits jump. None understand me. The language barrier balloons, refusing to dissipate. So, by welcomed default, I explore Beijing via a bicycle my brother purchased at a pawn shop (seen below) and a city map I purchased at an all English bookstore (seen above). The bike cost around fifteen American dollars. At this all English bookstore, I noticed an Ayn Rand collection, The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged, for 300 RMB. It is beautiful to see these two books buried in Beijing, waiting for a home. By exhaustive design, both books are passionately anti-communist. I want to buy the set and send it to Mao as a gift for his hospitality.
I enjoy riding this raw bicycle around Beijing. I’m sucking in the Eastern air. I feel less passive. I feel like an active wheel spinning inside Beijing’s relentless forward motion. I feel like a participant.
Riding a bicycle here presents high risk for collision. The streets are very crowded and every open space is a commodity to be seized, a free for all. The pace is disciplined madness. You must be tuned into your surroundings. Cars will smash you. You must cling to the sides of the roads. People will crash you. You must ring your warning bell. Ting. Ting.
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