A Day In Xi’an

Wild Goose Pagoda

Legend has it that the monk said, “Kill the goose! Build a pagoda!” And hence, the Wild Goose Pagoda came into existence. Not sure if that’s actually true, because I can’t imagine a monk ordering something killed, but…

We paid our admission and entered the complex. We walked past many smaller buildings, offices, bookstores, snack stand. Though they were utilized for everyday activities, they still possessed the beauty of thousands of years ago. The incredibly detailed wood carvings. The sloped tiled roofs, gently cascading down, down, down. The immaculately tiled floors, some tiles grey marble, some pink marble, some plain, others with blossoming flowers in the center.

We walked past all of these buildings, heading straight to the back of the complex. In the rear most buildings were dark wooden reliefs, carved intricately, oiled and shining, telling the history of Monk Yijing. Toni (our lovely tour guide with the boy’s name) was surprised (and I think somewhat appalled) that we didn’t know who this monk was. Monk Yijing walked to India (from China…) in 671. Once in India, he obtained and translated Buddhist scriptures. In the wooden reliefs, Monk Yijing is portrayed as almost the same height as the king, indicating his high social position, and much deserved respect.

I stood at the base of the 7 story pagoda and looked up. Each layer, just slightly smaller than the one before it, culminating in a point! at the top. The grey of the bricks such a contrast to the perfectly clear, not a cloud anywhere, cornflower blue sky. We paid an additional admission to walk, no elevators here, to the top of the pagoda. More than once dad and I hit our heads as we walked up the stairs. On each level, the staircase became not only narrower, but shorter as we ascended. We stopped at a couple of levels on the way up, to look out each of the four directions: north, south, east, west. Unfortunately, like Beijing, most of what we could see in the distance was smog. That thick, heavy, lazy blanket coating the city.

At the very top we looked out the small window, overlooking the complex. The bells were tolling. There, as tiny as dolls, a never-ending line of monks, in alternating brown, beige, and marigold robes, walked, single file, towards the main hall.

We walked back down the seven dizzying flights of stairs. Magnetically, we were drawn towards the chanting. As we rounded the corner, pots of incense burned hotly, blazing, the heat distorting the view beyond. The main hall was packed with monks and disciples, listening, learning. Outside, more were lined up, shoes off, on mats, listening, tolerating the tourists interrupting their service. We observed, then quietly walked down the path leading towards the exit.

I asked Dad to take a picture of Mom and me with the pagoda in the background. As we were posing, two beehived Chinese ladies, dressed in purple, with the hottest pink lipstick I’ve ever seen, approached us. They took our hands and held them, positioning themselves beside us. I’m not sure if we were joining their picture, or they were joining ours, but you could hear the “click, click, click” of so many cameras as we stood there. After we had smiled to each direction, they took our hands and squeezed them, as you would do to a long lost friend. We smiled, we bowed, we were off.

Biking On The City Wall

We made our way through intolerable traffic. Sitting. Sitting. Moving inches. Sitting. The heat. The smog. I could feel my back getting damper and damper. I tried to lean forward. It didn’t help.

After what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only 45 minutes, we were across town, at the entrance to the walled portion of the city. Xi’an was once the ancient capital of China. A wall, about 14 kilometers in length, protected it. We climbed the steps, each one a struggle in the intense heat. Finally reaching the top, we were greeted by a wide road of sorts, the top of the wall. Hardly anyone in sight. It was strange, not to see crowds, bustling up against one another, beckoning you into their stores, selling their wares. We enjoyed the solitude for a moment. I looked to our right.

Bicycles!

Not high tech, mountain-road bike combinations. Good, old fashioned, Chinese bicycles. A line of them, all pink! We *have* to ride the bikes. We *must* ride the bikes. Mom uttered a gentle protest, “I haven’t ridden a bicycle, in, Lord knows, 50 years.” Um. Mom. It doesn’t matter. Hence, that saying, it’s just like riding a bike. You never forget.

Maybe that saying isn’t really true.

But we did get on bikes, and we rode, just the four of us, meeting virtually no one in our path. There really wasn’t much of a view from the city wall. A lot of laundry drying. A lot of construction. And a lot of smog. But the feeling of movement. Of flying. Of soaring. On these magical pink bicycles. These wonderful, functional, no gear bicycles.

I pedaled as fast as I could, circling in front of Mom, still unsteady, and Dad, offering limited assistance beside her. Still pedaling, I pulled out my camera and turned it on. Action shot! Smile! I hollered, still pedaling. Dad laughed. Mom reprimanded.

For an hour, we pedaled along the wall, just enjoying. Not seeing any sights in particular. Not learning any history. Just being.

It was one of my favorite moments of our trip.