Beijing air has this certain thickness to it, with this deep, damp, musty undertone. The minute you step off the plane you can feel it weaving it's way into your lungs, and know that there's no possible way that this could possibly be good for you. The air pollution for the day is posted right up with the temperatures. Right there, in the weather report. It's as if they're saying look, this is the new normal. We're poisoning our air, but we can tell you to what extent of bad it's gotten. Wear a mask if you're scared of it. If not, tough it out.

Beijing is at it's finest right after the rain. That's when the stink and all the pollution in the air comes down and is washed away. It's followed by blue skies, and air so clean you feel like you're inhaling a nice cold glass of water. But the sun rises quickly in the sky with all its burning heat and the smog follows a day or two after. Then the sauna is back, your body constantly dripping in sweat, and you escape to the underground, taking subways just to hide from the sun a little bit longer and crossing your fingers that you've picked the right exit. But there's four exits and only one of you, so probability is you're going to go the wrong way and have to walk, just a little bit lost, through that thick Beijing heat, lungs heaving, eyes squinting and dry, trying to not get run over when you cross the street. It's you, the pedestrian, who has to watch for cars, not the driver for pedestrians. You push your way forward, constantly pushing, constantly weaving through crowds and crowds of people, never having any space, any privacy. It's a city that has more people than space, and large towers to stack them all.

But there's peace hidden in all the madness. In sprawling parks filled with the hum of insects, and the pleasant chirping of birds. In lazy boat rides on the lake. Lotus flowers are looked at with admiration in the distance, only with a slight discomfort squirming through you when you take a closer look at its seeds. Lions and dragons protect gates that lead to seemingly nowhere. Schools of bright red fish fill the ponds. In temples with head bowed, burning incense pressed in between palms. The air is sweeter here, the beautifully painted red and blue wood fragrant and smooth. There is silence. No one dare speaking a word. Feet shuffle quietly across the floor, feeling small in the light of the large golden Buddha towering over you. And it makes you feel thankful. Thankful to be able to come to such a place. Thankful to be able to see such gorgeous sights. Thankful towards all the people you met, who welcomed you with warm, welcoming arms, and generously force-fed you copious amounts of food. Food that always comes with some sort of embellishment to make it look prettier. Food that may look questionable at first, but ends up tasting better than anything you've ever had. Food that you enjoy to eat. Sitting there, being able to eat with people you love.

Beijing air is thick and rotten and the worst poison for your lungs. But I'm addicted to it. And to it, and my family and loved ones I will always return. Because this city has always been my place of return, and as mad as it drives me, as sick as it makes me, there is always that one little light, that one little memory that hooks me like a fish that has took the bait and pulls me back. At night its a shimmering city. My flickering home.