Tiger Balm, mister? It is the mantra of any self-respecting street hawker across Asia. The logo reads...
Heals Wherever It Hurts.
I wonder if it will fix my wounded psyche. My ill-fitting identity. My unmoored consciousness. My accosted solitude. This complete and utter disconnection.
Sitting along Nanjing Road, I can see the new Pacific Century, the long Sino-centric future laid out before me. And to tell you the truth, it’s not that pretty.
A sickly gray fog clings to the city at dawn. The air a moist warm rag smelling of cigarette smoke and diesel, charcoal and sewage. The city's surrealist skyline lies smudged by haze.