Twentysomething

There are some serious mountain ranges to cross on the road back from Deqin.  At our highest point, we were about 3.5 miles above sea level.  The road pretzeled and rhombused.  At certain points, the mountains devoured the pavement, leaving only gravel and dirt.

What he offered was something we could do on our own, so I declined. I gave him a chance, I thought. Then the surprise – the miracle – occurred.  Instead of perseverance, I met affirmation.  There was no pestering, no cheaper prices, no customization, and no further add-ons that I wouldn't want.

In early mornings, the town shuddered to life.  Women washed vegetables, laundry, and children in the murmuring streams.  Grandmothers opened steaming tins of dumplings and set out large bowls of noodles.

After half an hour of glances, the salesman climbed into his top bunk opposite my own. His name was Albert.  I pressed him for his Chinese name, but he said I would forget it and that his English name was easier to remember.

Walkways, overpasses and billboards are armed with purples, pinks, and greens. The facades of buildings offer constant distractions from its light displays; on one memorable office tower, a Tetris game blinked across 50 stories.

Most border regions are no-man's lands where countries bleed culture, cuisine and customs into their neighbors. That's what I love about land crossings.