One day left. I finally took the maglev back from the airport. I got on and...well...it's a train. A fast train. I mean, a really fast train...but it's still a train. It takes you from point A to point B -- quickly. Except this one cost like a jillion dollars to build. Not kwai, dollars. That's a lot of rice just to say you rode a maglev.

Should I sit around and relax after such an arduous trek to the skies of Huang Shan? Of course not! That night I ended up dancing with a Singaporean girl to Spanish music played by a Filipino band at a German bar.....in Shanghai.....China. Lots of fun, even if the Chinese girls in lederhosen threw me for a loop everytime they walked by. I tried to picture the St. Pauli Girl as Chinese, but something was always missing.....

The next morning I did some last-minute shopping in the street market off Nanjing Lu before catching my late morning flight to Beijing, Chicago and home to D.C. My pack didn't make the connecting flight in Chicago, and I ended up waiting at the dreadfully boring Dulles airport 'til midnight, two hours after I should have been on my way home. Just when I was starting recognize that the fantastic trip was over and was looking forward to crashing in my own bed for the first time in a month, the adventure refused to end, as if sucking every last drop out of the experience.

I finally got home Sunday at 1:30am.

I fell asleep at 5, dreaming of China.

My last adventure in China -- Huang Shan. Yellow Mountain. The mountain of pine trees and infinite steps, of movies, classical Chinese paintings and poetry. The most famous mountain in China outside Tibet. But first I would have to get there, and that would involve making my flight from Shanghai.

Which I missed.

I intended to take the 'maglev' to the Pudong airport, a magnetic levitation transportation system that whisks you to the airport in less than ten minutes. However, the kind folks at the Captain Hotel failed to inform me that it stops running at 5:30. The taxi I then begged to race me to the airport did just that, but not in time for me to make my flight. Letting fly a certain four-letter word that erupted from inside of me and practicing my sidekick against the nearest wall, I sulked in a cafe until managing a standby ticket for a later flight. Upon arriving at Huang Shan airport, it would still be a 90-minute ride to the hostel at the base of the mountain. The guy I spoke to at the hostel said buses run all the time from the airport to the mountain.

They sure don't, and I was facing a very expensive taxi ride. Doesn't anyone in China know anything for certain? After three and a half weeks, I shouldn't have been surprised, but I certainly was ticked off. Luckily, I convinced a tour group headed to Tangkou, my destination, to let me ride with them after pushing through their initial reluctance. I flashed a little bit of Mandarin and told them they could practice English, and they welcomed me aboard. Unfortunately, all I wanted to do was sleep but I couldn't muster the rudeness and I chatted with a few guys in the back until we arrived in Tangkou and I got to my hostel where I would sleep horribly for five hours before waking up at 6am to get an early start.

I sat down for breakfast at the hostel and it was decided that I wanted rice porridge, pickled cabbage and one hard-boiled egg. I liked the egg.

At the base of the mountain, I got my ticket and headed right to start climbing to the peak high some 1860m above, while most of the tourists went left toward the cable car that would whisk them to the top. Along the way I fell in with a couple groups of younger Chinese that wanted me to climb them, and I was happy for the company. Up we went through the forests of pine that dominate the mountain, legs grudgingly climbing stone step after stone step under the bright sun, sweat pouring down my face. Stone benches along the way offered rest stops we were only too happy to take. The views were very secluded in the early beginnings, and we would have to wait to be awed by the expanse of the mountains around us. We hit a fork in the path and while most people went straight, my little band of hikers was going right and so I followed, not knowing that it would add about three hours to my grueling day. I'm very glad I did.

The path continued up the side of the mountain and twisted in every which way. We broke through the main treeline and saw endless ridges and peaks in every direction, mountain faces smoothed by eons of wind, rain and snow (and more recently, spit). It was breathtaking and I understood why the Chinese people throughout the ages immortalized Huang Shan so -- the mountain demanded it.

Above and below, other hikers labored their way to the top. I didn't see any high heels like in Jiuzhaigou, but plenty of Chinese men were pounding the rough stone steps in suits and dress shoes. I was very thankful to be wearing my Asolo boots, unable to imagine what my knees would be like in a pair of Bostonians instead. One guy in particular was quite a mess -- overweight, gasping for air, suit disheveled, glasses barely staying on his wet face, looking like a wax frog that was about to give up, melt and run down to the valley below.

The steps got narrower and steeper as we kept ascending -- to where, I did not know. Missteps would be disastrous. Someone below said to watch your head. I turned a corner and decidedly whacked my head against a large and rather solid rock. Eventually we reached the summit of Heavenly Capital Peak, the most challenging of the three major peaks of the mountain. The views were tremendous and I felt exhilirated standing there at the summit marker under the noon sun on top of the one of the most beautiful mountains I'd ever seen. Unfortunately, as exhausted as I was, I still had miles to go across the mountaintop (or up, down, up, down and up again) before I could rest for the night. It was very tough going, especially when your breakfast consisted of rice porridge, pickled cabbage and one hard-boiled egg.

I left the gorgeous peak behind and made my way towards the Behai region of the mountain where my room at the Behai Hotel would welcome one tired and collapsing body. Along the way the scenery of ridges and pines was every bit as beautiful one minute as the next. I ran into my bus group from the night before and managed a meager smile and 'ni hao ma'. They probably thought I looked like a wax frog that was about to give up, melt and run down to the valley below.

After seven hours, I finally reached the hotel and had what might not have been the best shower in China, but to me felt like the heaven into which I had climbed. The sunset was hardly visible and might have disappointed those looking for the classic cloud and peak vista so often seen in the old paintings, but I was happy enough to breathe in the clean air and slump against a pine tree as the cool of night emerged around me and sent me off to sleep.

But not for long. I woke up at 4:30am and joined the other early risers to catch the sunrise, though the forecast wasn't too positive. Nevertheless, I ascended the peak outside the hotel overlooking the "Monkey Gazing at the Sea" rock and enjoyed the gradual lightening of the day from the dark blue of night, the sporadic parting of the thick mists that blanketed the area, occasionally revealing the multitude of peaks in the distance, and the quiet of my environment as more and more sleepyheads retreated back to the hotel, leaving me alone on top of Yellow Mountain.

As I watched the mists recede, I thought about how the same has happened for me in China itself, how this country I knew so little about has thrown itself open to me. More importantly, I thought about how the people have opened not just their eyes but their hearts wherever I've been, how they've showed genuine warmth and interest when they got over the differences between us. China is a different world, some would say a different universe and I'd be hard pressed to disagree, but I now feel like I'm a part of that world, however small. I now feel there's something I can go back to, something to which I have a small yet firm sense of belonging.

The sun is high up behind a thick wall of white clouds, and it's time to leave. Taking in the view one last time, I head back down the mountain to catch a plane back to Shanghai.

Already bored in Shanghai, I decide to grab a fistful of kwai and head for the Tourist Tunnel that runs underneath the Huangpu River from the Bund to Pudong where I could ascend the Pearl TV Tower. The tunnel is more than just that, oh much, much more. I thrown down 65 kwai for the full package ticket, which gives me entry to the aquarium and sex culture exhibits, in addition to the tunnel itself.

Passing through the gate in the depths underneath the river, I climb into a large capsule which will take me through the tunnel -- I feel like I'm in a twisted version of Disney World. As the door closes behind me and the capsule slowly moves forward, a less than dazzling array of colored lights flashes in the dark around me and is less Star Wars and more Marvin the Martian. Random geology words are piped into the capsule: "lava", "light swirl", "blue cobalt" (I see no blue anywhere). Am I supposed to be learning something here besides that I'm wasting money? Halfway through, a balloon-like boy and girl, each about 10 ft. high, dance and sway to the winds that rush through the tunnel, each wearing an unintended evil grin, and any twisted nightmares I had of Raggedy Ann and Andy as a child are instantly brought to the forefront of my mind. Can I get off, please? I don't like this very much, thank you.

The capsule pulls into the station at the opposite end of the tunnel where a young girl patiently stands at the ready, very Chinese in her attention to duty, and lets me out. What she thinks of this mess or of the people that cough up the kwai to see it, I have no idea. As I stand there and try to gather myself together, "We Are the World" emanates from speakers above, followed by "The Way We Were" - instrumental versions, of course. Part of the fun in China is giving up trying to understand everything. Once you see it as hopeless, you can really start enjoying yourself. I shrugged my shoulders, laughed to no one in particular and headed to the exhibits.

The aquarium exhibit is hardly worth mentioning, especially being a diver, except for that it's where I met Yuling, the cute girl visiting Shanghai from Anhui who spoke not a single word of English. Knowing that we wouldn't be able to talk about much, I decided it would be much more interesting to go right ahead to the sex exhibit with my new friend.

Tracing 5,000 years of history of sex in China, it was indeed more interesting than watching a couple angel fish swim around. Artifacts of all "varieties" stood proudly display as if they were ancient pottery or jade necklaces.

Only in Shanghai.

Afterward, I went up the Pearl Tower to look out over the city and saw exactly what I expected -- a wide view of Shanghai. Nothing more, nothing less. I had a plane to catch that evening to Huang Shan, so I left the disappointment of the tower behind and took the same route back to the mainland that I took to get here to Pudong -- the Tourist Tunnel. Once again, I passed through the nonsensical light displays and nightmarish swaying 10 ft. dolls. Emerging thankfully on the other side, some voice that I can only assume to be Celine Dion due to the shivers that ran up and down my back welcomed me back to the Bund.

I would have preferred Kenny G.

Reluctantly, I board the plane from Li Jiang to Shanghai via Kunming, the capital of Yunnan. I'm tempted to stay the night in Kunming and leave for Shanghai the next morning, but that would have thrown the last few days of the trip, and potentially the planned excursion up Huang Shan (Yellow Mountain) in doubt. So instead, I kill a couple hours at the Kunming airport snapping away at the TV crew filming just outside until they shut me down and I head for Shanghai, the "New York of China".

Perhaps in the most cosmo city in China I might be able to hear some music besides Kenny G or some other American music from ten or twenty years ago that the Chinese have instrumentalized and insist on playing ad nauseum. I don't know what the attraction is, but I've heard Kenny G, the talented yet often maligned saxophonist, just about everywhere I've been. Trains, elevators, car stereos -- he's everywhere. If China is really trying to catch up with Western culture, then it should start with what's on the radio today -- not fifteen years ago -- but I would expect nothing less from the country I've childlishly grown fond of over the past three weeks. I just wish they'd stop playing the same Kenny G song! Even the street saxophonist working the nighttime crowd in Li Jiang could have chosen any other title on any other CD and I would have forgiven him. Instead I'm continually forced to listen to music from an album I sold a long time ago.

On the plane to Shanghai I'm seated across the aisle from a couple European ladies who were not only downright annoying in their constant chatter and complaining, though admirably in Chinese but annoying nonetheless, they were French. Granted, I have nothing personally against the French, but as an American I feel it's my duty to be at least a little more annoyed at them than if they were English or from any other country of the world, which was quite easy with these ladies as they never stopped griping about something or another as they lolled barefoot all over their seats, probably about how there was no Kenny G in the cabin.

Settling in at the Captain Hotel in Shanghai, I head out to the Bund to wander the famous waterfront promenade under the night sky. Masses of locals and outsiders alike make their way back and forth, strolling aimlessly along the pedestrian walkway. On one side, the mid-19th century European architecture of Zhongshan Dong Lu manifests itself in the old banks and commerce buildings that speak of the heyday of old Shanghai. The lights of the city cast a warm orange glow across the buildings, intricate shadows created by the curves and angles of the roofs and windows that speak of a China unlike any I had seen so far on my journey. On the other side of the crowds wandering the Bund, across the Huangpu River, sits Pudong Island where an array of neon lights and buildings reaching for the sky pleasingly assault the senses in a firm display of modernity to which the Shanghai natives are justly proud. In the middle stands the Oriental Pearl TV Tower, the tallest in Asia at 468m, its observation decks shining brightly for all to see.

I stand there on the Bund with my hands on the railing while tourists to either side of me have their picture taken with the looming nightlight in the background, and I think that Pudong, if not the whole of Shanghai, represents China having one foot forward, one foot in the Western culture to which most underdeveloped and growing economies in the world strive to copy and embrace, rightfully or not, while the other foot stands firmly in Beijing, in the hutongs and ancient dynastic culture that is the foundation on which it, and much of the country, is built. The thought pleases me because it tells me that China is both here and there, or perhaps it's nowhere at all in particular. It just is, and it transcends.

The following day I head out to Nanjing Lu, the most popular pedestrian shopping street in the city, the Cunxi Lu of Chengdu except at a much larger scale (unfortunately). Stores are stocked with Star Wars t-shirts and expensive tea. Groups of tourists in blue hats disembark from a yellow trolley that takes them from one shopping hell or mecca to another.

I take a break and get my first bubble tea. Surprisingly, I had not encountered any yet on my trip, despite it being supposedly a very popular drink. I quickly empty the plastic cup of the sweetened milkshake-like tea and eat the candied chunks that rest at the bottom. I don't understand what the big deal is, so I order another. At 2 yuan a pop, it's hardly a hit on the wallet (or as the case would be in China, the permenantly disorganized lump of bills of different sizes). I still don't understand the craze as I go back for one more. After the third one, I'm convinced there's nothing special. Unburdened by expectations, the fourth one was quite OK.

The fifth was a bit too sweet.

The layer of grime of Chinese cities that is usually balanced by green parks and old culture stands alone along Nanjing Lu, and I quickly walk to the end merely for the sake of checking it off my list. I didn't need clothes or a fake Rolex watch that was offered to me at every corner (or anything else to drink), so I leave, slightly disheartened at what I've seen of Shanghai so far. While the atmosphere of the Bund is nice, it's not enough to redeem the city in my tourist eyes. Perhaps tomorrow would be different.

My last day in Li Jiang, I was still feeling the effects of the awesome but energy-draining Tiger Leaping Gorge. As good a day as any to see a doctor, I went to the nearby village of Baisha to see Dr. Ho, the man made famous by travel writer Bruce Chatwin. My taxi pulled off the main highway into the small, dusty village sitting quietly under the looming presence of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain. A few locals stood inside their open shops, waiting for the possibility of a sale from one of the few tourist buses that came to see the village frescoes, the only attraction in the village -- unless you count the doctor himself. Few took notice of me. Even the few children I saw, playing in the street, failed to even look my way.

I walked down the street, slightly afraid to ask anyone where to find the eccentric man for fear of being just another backpacker tripping across China in search of the meaning of life from a wispy-bearded elder. I bought a bottle of water from an old lady to justify my need for directions. She pointed me around the corner and down the street.

An old man stands outside as if he knew precisely when I would arrive, as if I had made an appointment. In front are dozens of newspaper clippings of various languages prominently displayed for passersby to peruse. But nobody actually passes by-- people come here, to Baisha, to this very spot on which I stand to meet Dr. Shi-Xiu Ho for anything from his beloved special tea to the meaning of life. Dressed in a long white coat and hat, he has an energy that belies his age that I put in the early 80s. "Where are you from?" he asks in broken but completely understandable English and immediately points out the English articles faster than I can read them as if he was showing me his resume. I first think he is bragging and become skeptical, but the honesty in his gleaming eyes and the kindness and eagerness in his voice show him to be one of those rarest of creatures -- a genuinely good man. I follow him inside.

I sit down behind the counter as Dr. Ho pushes more articles and letters in front of me before disappearing, some from American doctors, one from the Mayo Clinic, but most from past visitors around the world requesting more of his tea to help with their various ailments. Quite a few of the letters are from an American who considers the doctor to have cured him of leukemia. I'm in no position to doubt him.

He reappears with a teapot and cup and introduces me to his renowned tea, a mix of flowers and plants he personally collects from the mountain. He sits across from me as I drink cup after cup. I have come to see the doctor to discuss my health in particular and I start to grow impatient, as much as one can grow impatient under such benevolence, because we had yet to talk about me. I remind myself that he probably has people come visit him solely because he's mentioned in the various travel guides and that I'm probably being lumped into the whole lot.

Finally, he reads my hands for about fifteen seconds and silently nods to himself. "You have many problems", he tells me and beckons me to his back office.

I walk in and find the old man bent over, rushing back and forth between large red plastic vats, each filled with a different powdered flower or plant, personally collected from the snow-capped mountain above. Scoop after scoop, the mixture grows until he hands me a plastic bag filled with powdered hope, which I'm to drink three times a day to remedy my poor circulation, which he says has been plaguing me for a while. The advice doesn't end there.

As I hand him my donation, his only source for funds to operate the clinic, I ask him if the tea is really all I need and, as if he'd been listening to Bobby McFerrin before I walked into town, he tells me the secret to good health and long life: "Don't worry, be happy". He speaks the words as if it's just that simple, as if all the illness in the world can be attributed to the unhappiness in which we often live in the present just so we can hopefully be happy someday in the distant future. It never seemed so backward to me as it did right then and there.

"Just be happy", he repeats. I smile and tell him I'll do my best, not sure whether I feel excited at the contents in the bag I'm carrying or whether I merely had an interesting experience, talking with a kind old man over a pot of tea.

As I turn to leave, a tall German man walks in. When the doctor can't place the face, the man says he visited him seventeen years ago. The look of surprise and happiness on Dr. Ho's face as he disappears into the back room to make another pot of tea is one that stuck with me the rest of the day.

The next morning I woke up refreshed and thankfully free of any ailments, though slightly tired and annoyed by having been woken up in the middle of the night by the rather unneeded headache. A wonderful breakfast and some morning mountain air that breathed new life into me instead of taking it away was all I needed. The three of us left the Naxi Guesthouse and headed onward, following the gradually inclining slope of the highline path until we reached the 28 Bends.

The Bends are a series of grueling switchbacks that snake up to an altitude close to 8000ft. I would have complained but that would have required using air that my lungs decided they'd rather have instead. As we were planning on spending another night on trail at a guesthouse near the end, we didn't feel any need to rush. Still, we were quite anxious to get the seemingly unnecessary torture behind us, and we heard the night before by a couple Australians heading the other way that the trail levelled out after the Bends. But they told quite a tall tale or two and we would wait to see for ourselves.

The trail levelled out after the Bends. Able to breathe, talk and walk at the same time, we sailed through the rest of the day's hike, winding along the curving mountain face high above the river, which became increasingly turbulent and louder as the day went on. A waterfall showering the path late afternoon graciously cooled us down while the nearby goats would have none of it. I guess they can stand at impossible angles on a mountain face -- as long as the rocks are dry.

Another night at a guesthouse, Sean's, another night of delicious Chinese food and beers under the almost full moon, another day free of yellow hats. The rest of the trail the following day mostly followed the road, which felt like butter under our tired feet, until it meandered into a new village, creatively called New Village, and down some rocky slopes to the ferry which took three tired but satisfied hikers on their way back to the crowded alleys, waving flags and dried yak meat of Li Jiang.

Traveling the world by yourself is always an interesting experience, full of mostly good and, unavoidably, some bad times. But it is always a learning experience, and I've learned a lot about traveling, myself and others along the way. I've also sharpened my common sense, and ideas that I once would have dwelled on before still possibly choosing poorly, I now see with quick clarity -- such as embarking on a three-day trek high above one of the world's deepest gorges, the Tiger Leaping Gorge, is best done in the company of others. After all, if I were to fall and break something I would rather have unbroken, the only creatures likely to hear me would be goats, which would do nothing but stare quizzingly at my predicament before deciding that is just what humans do and that it is certainly not as interesting as chewing grass or standing calmly at impossible angles on the rock wall, or the random Naxi goatherder, who would likely think that this is just what Westerners do and that it's certainly not as interesting as watching his goats eat grass or stand calmly at impossible angles on the rock wall.

So I wandered into a nearby hostel and met a couple other solo travelers who, though likely not as worried about goats or goatherders, also decided that it would just be more fun to trek in a group. So the three of us hopped on a bus to the start of the trek in the two-street town of Qiaotou. Our trio consisted of Lee, a 30yo Brit currently living in Melbourne, and Cynthia, a 34yo Chinese-Canadian from Edmonton currently living in London, and me, a Canadian-American Jew from Washington, currently wondering where I had left my very expensive camera. It turns out I had left it at the table of the hostel cafe where we had met up that morning. They both had seen it on the table but apparently decided that it was either not mine or that leaving very expensive cameras on cafe tables and skipping town is just something that Americans do. Thankfully, the owner had seen it and would hold it for me until I returned. I, meanwhile, was both frustrated at not having my camera with me on what would likely be the most scenic part of my month-long sojourn, but also slightly relieved of the burden that it often is. Cynthia allowed me to use hers for when I felt the strong urge to make the 'ch-ch' sound that I love hearing every time I press the shutter button. [Note: I am now home and slightly ticked because Cynthia's pictures are all date/time stamped, which is only important if I ever forget at what exact time I took that shot of the kids mobbing me. Next time I'll remember my camera!]

We finally found the trailhead which soon passed an elementary school, empty of kids who evidently decided it would be more fun to play basketball outside and stare at the big, funny white people who came by everyday to see what it would feel like to be act like a goat for three days. Having gotten a late start and seeing that we were only hiking a couple hours the first day, we took an early break and played basketball among the kids who much preferred to mob whichever one of us was holding a camera. I'll leave out the details of the basketball shootaround except to say that I was still feeling the effects of the cold.

Leaving the slumping yet smiling teachers to handle the suddently frenzied group of children behind, we headed uphill along the dry and dusty path. While our throats and lungs were quite unhappy, our eyes and ears were ecstatic at the awesome mountain scenery into which we had entered and the sounds of....of no yellow hats. When you find yourself somewhere in China and cannot hear the collective jumbling that yellow hats make, you know you're somewhere special. As happy as I was, I was still bothered by the fact that my head and ears were not improving, and I knew I was only going to go higher and higher, to around 8000ft before the trek was over.

There are about ten guesthouses scattered along the TLG trail so that you can try to plan how much to hike each day and where you are going to heal your feet through rest and beer each night. The first night we ended up at the Naxi Guesthouse, run by an elder Naxi couple that, while not speaking a word of English, were nonetheless incredibly warm and hospitable. Chatting with a few other travelers, both heading our way and coming from the village of Daju at the opposite end of the trek, we were warned about the '28 Bends' that would greet us the next morning, an uphill series of switchbacks that would surely suck the air from our dry and already-aching lungs. Cheered at the thought, I drifted off to sleep.

And woke up a few hours later with a pounding headache.

I think I may have made a mistake in coming.

Well, it turned out another day of rest was coming my way whether I wanted it or not. When three people who only know each other by first name and what kind of local beer they prefer, all coming from different directions and heading out the same way, try to go trekking together the plans often hit a snag. It's too meaningless to write about, but we would leave the next day. In the meantime, I had one more day to wander about Li Jiang among the yellow hats. Let me explain.

In Li Jiang, as in most of China, tourists are mainly Chinese themselves. They are starting to discover their own country, visiting places they had only heard about and were off limits to previous generations in previous times, mainly because of finances. But that is changing as China is growing, and the Chinese are now whipping about the country in a frenzy of yellow hats. You see, the Chinese generally don't travel independently; they much prefer to travel in arranged tours, identified by two things: their like-colored hats, usually yellow, red or white, and the collective movement of all the like-colored hats following a young girl waving a usually yellow flag who would rather be home watching a bootlegged DVD of the latest Julia Roberts movie.

On some kind of itinerary, which in Li Jiang means backtracking all over the same cobblestone alleys and bridges so that the people think they've walked about ten kilometers instead of two, the 'hats' move together down the alleys, causing anyone trying to walk against their direction to momentarily step aside into a store selling wooden flutes shaped like huge bulbs of garlic. When one yellow hat stops to see what kind of dried yak meat is offered at the dried yak meat store, identified by the sign 'Dried Meat Yak', all the other yellow hats decide that they must see also. So a rule goes into effect that if you have a sudden craving for dried yak meat or even dried meat yak and are wearing a yellow hat, then this is the store you go to. If you are wearing a red or white hat, then you are obviously in the wrong store, will not be served and must try the dried yak meat store on some other street. However, you will undoubtedly get lost and come back to the same store, thinking that this must be the place that serves dried yak meat to the red or white hats and be shamed once again, to the amusement of the yellow hats who are busy eating curried yak and complaining that their feet hurt from walking so far.

Fortunately, I was spared another day from the hats by the two lovely Chinese ladies who just so happened to wander in the hostel courtyard where I was eating breakfast. As they got to practice their already substantial English, I practiced keeping my mouth closed, blinking, and speaking the same English they were speaking to me instead of the grunts and moans that seemed quite more natural at the time, lest they think that an epidemic is sweeping America that is reverting all the men back to Neanderthalism. Marilyn and Cindy had already been in Li Jiang for a few days and knew their way around the maze-like town. As we walked around, arms in arms, passing drooling foreign men and scowling Chinese girls, my new friends took me to a cafe at the top of the hill in the center of town, which quite profoundly displayed a sign out front welcoming people from all countries of the world except the Japanese. A little perturbed, I nonetheless led the two flowers to the top of the hill where we spent the rest of the afternoon, the girls talking about their lives in Chengdu and me entertaining thoughts of moving to China. They had a plane to catch home that night, so we said our goodbyes and I prepared, once again, to go to the Tiger Leaping Gorge the next day.

But my head and ears still hurt.

I flew into Li Jiang late at night and couldn't really see anything around me due to the lack of streetlights. I knew there was an Old City, roughly 800 years old, and a New City but knowing which was which would have to wait until I woke up the next morning. However, I wasn't quite tired enough to pack it in, so after settling in at the hostel, I wandered the cobblestone paths hoping to get a beer somewhere fun. Walking around like a lost dog, I finally headed into the Mu Zi Bar, where I soon found myself drinking with the band that had just finished playing for the night. Once again the rockstar.

However, the next day wasn't quite as much fun as the roughly 7000ft altitude change gave me quite the headache and earache having come from Chengdu. It didn't get any better and the next day I went to the hospital, which looked like any hospital in America -- about 80 years ago. I finally found a doctor who spoke some English. He said what I thought he'd say -- the cold I'd been fighting has caused the other symptoms because of the altitude and that I need to wait a few days before heading out to the Tiger Leaping Gorge, which peaks just shy of 8000ft. I got some meds, and the whole visit cost roughly 21Y ($2.50). Amazing.

That night, I strolled the busy canal-laden stone streets of Old Town, full of boisterous Chinese on vacation from all over the country. Red lanterns swung from outdoor cafes, and tables of strangers sang songs together and in opposition to those on the other side of the waterway in a good-natured, beer-induced competition. It was quite the spectacle, even if I didn't understand the cheers.

But I could only enjoy it so much as I knew I was heading into the last week of my trip, and I had come all this way to hike the gorge. I would go against doctor's orders and attempt the gorge the next day with a couple other travelers I'd met here in Li Jiang. I was sure all I needed was just a little more tai chi to make everything ok.

Not exactly.

Jiuzhaigou, the 'Paradise of China', where people all across the country dream of visiting. And apparently, it's more than just a dream, as they arrive by the busloads. Indeed, it is a beautiful place, known for its lakes and pools of clear, blue waters, where long tree logs float on the surface like lily pads and waterfalls cascade down rocky cliffs.

But it is not a place to escape the crowds of China and get out into nature -- a rather impossible task, I'm beginning to believe. Fighting the altitude-induced headache, I took the bus ride into the park to the top of the road and walked all the way back, partly with a couple Chinese girls I met, mostly by myself. Occasional wooden plank walkways took me off the road and around to the far side of the lakes, but I sure wasn't alone. Some paths, largely the most inviting ones, were blocked off to the public and my frustration of having to walk among the throes of people, men in suits and women in heels!, led me to go beyond them and enjoy some solitude. If the entrance fee was only about $10, how much could a fine be?

It was a good decision, and I had a brief encounter with a couple young monks as I got back on the 'legal' paths before heading back through the main gate to the hotel. That night, I walked outside into the small night market and dined on my favorite food in all of Sichuan -- street food, carts full of meat and vegetable skewers cooked on a small grill while you wait. Some people will always tell you to stay away from street food when traveling -- I seek it out right away. Stuffed, I crashed that night in a freezing yet comfy hotel room.

I was impressed by Jiuzhaigou, but I find it hard to believe it's the most beautiful place in China. There must be someplace more magnificent, but I can also be a hard guy to please. I've spoiled myself, and I know it. :) But it was beautiful, nonetheless.

The next day I tried to get to nearby Huang Long mountain (Yellow Dragon), but a snowstorm made the road impassable, and after allowing the passengers a few moments of throwing snowballs at each other, we headed back to the airport after a brief stop in nearby Songpan. The plane was late leaving because of weather, and I missed my connecting flight out of Chengdu to Li Jiang and had to spend one more enjoyable yet unexciting day in Chengdu. That afternoon, I went back to People's Park for some tea. I ended up sitting next to three guys who couldn't peel their eyes off of me. I'd had enough, and I thought I'd try my usual trick: a smile. But that didn't work, and it took another force that can be even more powerful.

A beautiful woman.

Joining the three men, one of whom was her husband, she was quick with a hello and I soon found out that they were local Tibetans originally from Kangding and Litang in western Sichuan, in the foothills of Tibet. Once again, an uncomfortable situation was turned around and we enjoyed some tea together before I left Sichuan for Li Jiang in northwest Yunnan where I would spend a day or two before embarking on a three-day trek through one of the deepest gorges in the world -- the Tiger Leaping Gorge.