Observations on a walk · Night two

I went out late tonight, at half past ten.

Completely different from eight or nine on the first night.

At that earlier hour, the street still had the bustle of everyday life: the fruit stall was lit, the barber's pole still turned outside the shop, and older people sat in twos and threes by the roadside, enjoying the cooler air.

After half past ten, all of that had packed away.

The fruit stall went dark, the barber closed, and the older people went home to bed. Only a few places to eat remained open: Shaxian snacks, pan-fried buns, stewed noodles. White steam and cooking fumes drifted out through their doors.

There was almost nobody on the road.

As human voices receded, the cicadas suddenly stood out.

In the plane trees, their calls came in waves, louder than the streetlights. Once the people left, they seemed to fill the whole street.

This is the sound of a Shanghai summer. You cannot ignore it, and it will not let you.

With nobody in the way, walking was easier. A podcast played in my earphones, and my feet kept moving without needing to dodge anyone or turn sideways to let someone pass.

After ten minutes or so, I began to sweat a little. My knees also felt tight. Perhaps I had walked too hard on the first night and had not stretched afterward.

My body gave me a new signal.

On the first night, it said, "You finally remembered me." On the second, it said, "Take it easy."

The street had not changed. I had finally seen it.

I turned into a road lined with plane trees on both sides and stopped.

The two rows grew close to the street, their crowns reaching across the road to meet above my head. Layers of leaves and branches broke up the streetlights, letting only a few patches of light fall onto the trunks and ground. Nearby trunks were thick; farther away, each grew thinner, until they gathered into a single point in the dark.

As someone who paints, I immediately thought: one-point perspective.

If I painted the street in front of me, I would hardly need to arrange the composition. The trunks, lamps, shadows, and road were already carrying the eye into the distance. Standing there felt like standing inside an unfinished painting.

The same trees, the same streetlights, the same lengthened shadows.

I had walked here before, yet never thought it this beautiful.

The street had not suddenly become beautiful.

Tonight, I finally had enough room in myself to look at it.

But the shade of the plane trees did more than look lovely.

The branches and leaves blocked the light tightly, leaving the ground dark. Now and then, the sole of my shoe met something soft. Looking down, I could not make it out, but my nose already knew.

The smells under the trees were complicated.

Heat baking the fallen leaves gave off a heavy, singed smell. Wind from around the roots carried the sharp smell of urine: perhaps a cat's, perhaps a dog's, perhaps a person's. A few steps farther on, a hint of sweetness somehow joined it, from who knew where.

Burnt, sharp, sweet, all crowded into the same mass of humid air.

The smells were less obvious in the light. Under the canopy, though, the heat could not fully escape. The day's accumulated odors seemed to have been trapped beneath a lid, only to rise together in the evening when the wind moved.

The small road on the first night had been perfume mixed with cooking fumes, everyday bustle wrapped in warm yellow neon.

Beneath the plane trees on the second night, it was darker, a little wilder, and a little more real, as though the street had taken off its makeup.

Its beauty was real. So was the slight stink.

Two hours later, the same street wore another face

I kept walking and reached Dongkang East Road, where the scene changed again.

The eateries were still open: pan-fried buns, stewed noodles, local Shanghai dishes. But the light coming from them was not the warm yellow of the first night. It was a bright expanse of white.

White neon lit the entrances without shadows, making the tables, chairs, walls, and drifting cooking fumes look stark. From a little way off, they resembled an operating room whose lights had not yet been switched off.

On the first night, the small road seemed covered in a warm filter, with crowds, vendors' calls, and food aromas pressed together.

On the second, the same street was empty. Once the warm light withdrew, only white lamps remained over the few shops that had not yet gone to rest.

Two hours later, the street had changed its face.

Some things cannot be moved by reason, but can be moved by companionship

The white light made me squint. I turned up the volume in my earphones and kept walking.

In my ears, Li Dan was talking about making shows in his early years.

He said that what people really need is companionship, rather than reasoning.

As I walked, that word kept turning in my head.

Companionship does not necessarily mean "you talk, I listen," nor does it have to offer an answer.

It is more like this: when you need it, there is a presence beside you that is in no hurry to make you improve or solve your problems for you.

Sanmu is like that.

When I paint, the cat often lies beside me, without meowing or making a fuss. Sanmu has never painted a single stroke for me. But having a cat there makes the time spent sitting alone at the desk feel less empty.

Tonight, I was still walking alone.

The voice in my earphones did not take a single step for me, but it filled the gaps between cicadas and footsteps, making the walk feel less long.

It also reminded me that some things cannot be moved by reasoning, but can be moved by a relationship.

Knowing I should go out, exercise, and sleep earlier: I have known all that for ages. But when the body will not move, knowing more does no good.

On the first night, I pushed myself out of the door with, "Never mind. Just go out first."

On the second night, at least my body was less resistant. My knees were still reminding me not to walk too hard, but my feet already knew to go forward.

Perhaps companionship does not always mean someone doing something for you. Sometimes it is simply knowing that, on another road, someone else is walking too.

What sounds remain near your home after half past ten?

Cicadas, traffic, or a little shop downstairs that has not closed?

If you went out tonight too, you can reply with 散步, "a walk," in my WeChat publication's message box and tell me one small thing you saw, smelled, or heard.

You do not need to write much. One thing is enough.

See you on the road tomorrow night.

Observations on a walk · After eight each evening Tee Sang