I have taken my first tentative steps as the backpacking writer-traveller – a journey into the unknown: a blade’s edge romance of the psychotic and the utterly breathtaking, and in the immortal words of Hunter S. Thompson: “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro,” words to live by, and thus I shall. Where will this path take me, what adventures and treasures await me along the way? Only future-Kyle truly knows, but that bad-ass time-traveller’s tale is for another day.
The dawn is glorious, childe, will you rise to meet it? The trees whisper truths if you care to listen…
“A man’s life is already written, he must move through it as destiny will.”
Leo Hostel.
The perfect traveller’s hideaway. Tucked away in a nearly miss able but totally unmistakable corner a mere stones throw from the Forbidden City – though I dare not throw a stone anywhere even resembling the Forbidden City lest I wish an early demise. I rendezvous with the Dynamic Duo: Deev’s McFly, Devo, Lucky number Slevon, The Dandy Bohemian, who we name Astro, and White Flower Stomp herself, Bonzi Brandy B, Brado, Bai Lan Dee, The Nuveau-Zen Bohemian, who we name Clover. I am in Beijing for but a day and a night so we take advantage of the time we have together, friends found from far away are well cherished: we sup, we laugh, we sing. Glory.
We find ourselves making our way on a fast-forward tour of the things that are wicked in Beijing, namely The Forbidden City. Which I must say is truly impressive, a testament to the iron-strong will of the Chinese, standing for thousands – if not MILLIONS – of years. I make my way around the 9999-room palace belonging to the Son of Heaven, though now open to the public as a major tourist attraction, I am compelled to remain outside. I am not the Chinese Emperor, nor am I one of his euniches, concubines, or consorts and unless given explicit permission to do so, I’ll not idly step into the Son of Heaven’s house – I’ve spent a thousand life times NOT entering the Forbidden City upon pain of death, one more lifetime won’t hurt. Straight up.
But that doesn’t stop me from taking pictures!
40 hour train ride interlude: in a severely cramped bunk, in a car with annoyingly loud teenagers, all trying to get the attention of the neat looking foreigner with the pony-tail – that is not to disclude anyone else on the train straining to catch my eye. For the introspective writer it can prove… distracting. And by distracting I mean that I pretty much have to prove my manhood/awesomeness all day long. Which is fine by me, but in such cramped quarters it wears on you after a while. By the end of the train ride I had made 100 plastic friends and 1 truly good friend, Uncle Wong, he’s the man. Too much Baijiu for this Bard though can bring about some intense head aches, but at least I’ve still got my face and that’s worth a lot in China, and a good friend is priceless – headaches and all.
The Baijiu Bard 