Architecture spanning centuries towers over the crowds before it, a structure born from a proud culture whose story lines the palace walls and hangs from the bright red pillars that hoist yellow glazed tile roofs. Sharp splinters of frigid air assault my face and neck and cause my eyes to sting from this foreign caress; An alien 1°C making itself known to my sun-coddled African skin. I rub my stiff hands against each other and transfer this heat to my cheeks. At this meridian gate, three gaping passageways open before me; magnificent red walls holding within them lives once lived by a people long departed. Until now, my feet have known only the hardness of the African continent. And on those bright soils of my motherland, an almost unanimous thought follows any mention of this communist land of China. Where one may speak of counterfeit goods and another may refer to the crippling debt, a general idea is implied. This might be the 21st-century colonization of economies; nations sold to China. On these paved grounds, memory lends sight of a vivid expanse of yellow stretching before me with brilliant branches above and carpets of leaves below. In this street of urban Beijing, an elderly woman lowers herself to the colored ground, collecting the leaves whose color lends paint to the city. She offers warmth in her smile, her aging fingers holding a single leaf in my direction. As I lean forward to accept her gift, she borrows the strength from my outstretched hand to boost her frail frame to her feet. And as she releases my hand to leave, she lets her slightly parted fingers fall through the length of my braids. “Piaoliang.” She whispers a word that remains lingering over the single Ginkgo leaf long after she has moved on. “Beautiful.” Imposing structures of bronze hail my arrival at the Hall of Supreme Harmony, sending this earlier memory to rest in the shadow of conscious thought. The gray mass of cast bronze bares its dull teeth, its eyes a black mirror. This lion, though nothing like the tan creatures that roam the African wood, holds a globe beneath its right front paw. When once this hall had been a beating heart of the forbidden city, an emperor ruled over these ancient lands. I long to scratch at these stone walls to unearth secrets sunken deep within them, forever lost in solid particle. As I feel the cool touch of matured brick, I am returned to different walls. Shortened breath from a strenuous climb escapes my lungs as I will my failing resolve to conquer this monumental structure. Hundreds of years of hard work, separated families and lost lives hide within the crevices of this great wall’s grand architecture. Each brick, singular where millions lie with it, transforms to create an imposing beauty shrouding the oppression that once had been. The blatant display of their imperial power exposes itself in the architecture that has remained long after they have perished. At the foot of this splendor, survival trudges on. People whose eyes have known toil for far too long look upon the majesty of this human invention with a vacancy that robs of wide-eyed wonder to leave only the struggle for existence. Souvenirs depicting conquest of the wall are sold here; each trader with eyes fixated on traveler. The fight for survival, often oblivious to the actions and works of greater men, perseveres in the spirited hearts of those left behind. And these enduring eyes look not towards structure but gaze longingly upon hope. And at the helm of years long gone and the simple belief in the kindness of nature, acceptance anchors contentment. In this place of simplicity, a single leaf is warmth conveyed. I sought to find the faces behind the hand that would conquer my home but instead I was presented a people no different from my own. Arrival at the imperial garden fosters calm. I am met with flourishing trees, blooming gardens and rock formations. This is accentuated by the intricate form of sculpture, pavilion, and hill. The tranquility of these gardens is an almost spiritual exodus from this ancient city.