When I was 20-something, there was a time when I suddenly found myself in the mid of a Chinese village. I mean a village. An very unbeknown one, not an ancient town or a tourirst attraction.
For some unknown reasons (okay, for the sake of my work at that time), I was there for a week. And for some reasons I can’t explain (this time it’s true that I don’t know the reasons), there is a huge hotel in that very remote village. The place is so outlandish that all I could see at night were endless rice fields. No city lights, no lively sounds, nothing.
And of course I could not go out at night. During the day, I had work to do. When the night fell, I was supposed to stay in. So my only lovely moments were each afternoon and each early morning when I did one or two walks around the hotel’s lakes and gardens.
Paradoxically, I loved the scenes I saw. Well I wished I could have dropped off to Suzhou – the ancient town of my dream, yet the time inside that strangely huge hotel inside that strangely remote village was enjoyable in some ways.
And if I have to admit, I quite miss them.
The lakes.
The bridges.
The gardens.
The trees.
The leaves.
And
even the stones.
Extra photo – the last morning of the week when I came back to Shanghai
I stayed at Wang Bao He and fell in love with the view there. But that should be mentioned in another post.
alienmeo 