The Wall, at Last

I owed Beijing a debt from week one: I had skipped the Wall, out of some contrarian idea that the famous thing could wait. On the way home it stopped waiting. I took the train north and climbed, and the famous thing did what famous things occasionally do, which is exceed the postcard.

The Wall rides the ridgelines the way a signature rides a page, watchtower to watchtower to haze. I wore the souvenir shirt from the mountain leg, thin cotton and cheerful characters, because laundry logic on the last week of a trip is its own dynasty.

I walked until the restored stones gave way to wilder ones and sat in a tower embrasure with the wind. Five weeks ago I started this trip at a hotel where power danced. The Wall is what power builds when it stops dancing and starts worrying. Both are honest in their way.