I slide open the double glazing and noise fills the room – the roar of traffic, the shriek and blare of car horns, the clank and rumble of a bulldozer and a truck at work in the lot below. I can hear music, too, and snatches of birdsong, cries, whistles and squeaks in the midst of the thundering sound.
The bed looks so tempting, but instead I unpack my suitcase and have a shower. The body-wash smells of jasmine. I put on light clothes, three-quarter length linen pants and a loose blouse. Find my sunglasses. I text Nick. Arrived OK. Hot and sticky. Then I delete the last bit, it seems irrelevant. Add xxx.
Studying the map I printed off from Google, I can see that to the east and south of the hotel, in a couple of blocks, there’s a park by the river.
When Tom raps on my door, twenty minutes after the ‘hour’ is up, I suggest it to him.
Outside the heat is fierce, despite the cloud. There’s a chemical, metallic taste in the air and my tongue feels gritty. I haven’t put sun cream on and wonder whether to go back but can’t make a decision, so stop trying.
The streets are busy, the pavements crowded, the roads congested. There’s an energy in the rush. I imagine New York must be like this, with the bustle and the constant blast of horns. It’s a bit like London, too, except in London there’s a melting pot of people. Here everyone is Chinese. As Lori wrote: it’s like another planet, not just another country. And I am the alien.
Eyes appraise us, sliding over us, then back, double-takes as we pass. Not one but two of us. Tom’s height, his hair, attracting interest, the dirty blond, the length of it. All the men have short-cropped hair. The women have contemporary cuts, sometimes long, flowing locks; I see quite a few with coloured hair, burgundy or auburn, but the only blonde woman I see wears Goth make-up and stands out.
From behind they might never guess that Lori is not Chinese: she’s slim and short and dark-haired.
Underfoot there is a mishmash of patterned concrete, block paving, textured tiles, slabs and bricks, much of it cracked and uneven. There are sections with raised dots or lines that are less comfortable to walk on. I think these must be for people with visual problems, like at home.
At the junction, the road we meet is six lanes wide, three in each direction, with a smaller cycle lane by the pavement. There are traffic lights and a crowd gathers, waiting to cross. The lights opposite begin to count down 10, 9, 8… People edge and jostle. Then the lights change to green for us and we begin to walk, but there’s a blur of movement, loud toots to my left. A stream of cars and scooters and bicycles are riding at us. Tom grabs my arm and pulls me with him. ‘They can turn right on red,’ he says. We almost collide with a scooter that jinks past us.
