When I descend on the escalator towards the platform at 6:30 in the evening, what I’ve been smelling the entire journey becomes visible. A light glow hangs over Suzhou, as if a table lamp is gently burning. The towers in front of me are fainter than you’d expect. In the twilight they stand in their own shadow.
Smog, at the end of the day, is nothing unusual. Everyone is calm about it, pays no attention to it, or simply does not realize it. The smell is difficult to describe, because even without smog the air is filled with everything that burns, drives, smolders, cooks, eats or breathes. Europe, as I know it now, smells like coffee. China smells of everything, and always cigarettes. But the smell of smog binds everything together. It turns the world into an attic where the scent of old air has settled everywhere.
I’m breathing that old air now. Nobody seems to mind this either. Including myself. I write it down to describe it. Today the dirt level seems to be relatively good. It has no psychological impact. But sometimes it does.
As the train approaches, short lines form where the narrow train doors are expected. When the doors open, the outgoing travelers struggle out first, and then the new travelers go in shoulder to shoulder. For a moment the sounds from telephones can be heard, a baby complains a bit, and luggage is put down. Then it becomes quiet and we only hear the raging, shrill sound of the train that takes us to Shanghai at 300 km/h.
Written on January 8, 2019