Cross-Country Skiing

I went to Yabuli ski resort with a friend who does not ski. This is the kind of arrangement that makes a trip interesting.

The country road from the station to the resort is not lit. In November, darkness in northeastern China arrives early and completely. We walked it with phone flashlights, which illuminated maybe two meters ahead. The rest was black. I am from Jiangnan; complete rural darkness is not something I grew up with. After living at JLU long enough I’ve actually started feeling at home, and walking that road I found myself, improbably, missing the four-person dormitory.

The B&B, when we found it, was the kind of place that might be described as “atmospheric” by someone generous and “ominous” by someone honest. A mounted deer head in the common room. A fireplace that smelled of old ash. Log tables. A tapestry hanging on one wall, large and old, depicting a hunting scene with figures I couldn’t quite identify. A white cat, which appeared from somewhere and regarded us with the mild contempt of a cat that has seen many guests come and go.

The manager showed us to our room through an unexpected route—down to a basement corridor, around a corner, up a different staircase. The room itself was large, with a window that looked out at nothing but dark snow.

Midnight: my friend was snoring almost immediately. I lay awake, listening to the building settle. I thought about the tapestry. I went to look at it again, holding my phone flashlight close. It covered what appeared to be a door frame. I did not try the door.

Morning: snow in bright sunlight transformed the landscape entirely. Through the window I could see the unfinished skeleton of an adjacent villa—concrete beams, no walls, open to the sky—like something that had stopped halfway through becoming real. In that light it looked like the ruins of something ancient rather than the beginning of something modern.

The white cat was eating its breakfast in the common room when we came down. It did not acknowledge us.