Beijing Is a Pair of Fake Tits

Past one in the morning, I was at Hynes’s place, still playing Dirt with his steering wheel, planning to sleep over so we could leave first thing the next day.

We had to leave at five-thirty. I didn’t fall asleep until after three.

The McDonald’s at the airport was so expensive it made you question the entire world.

Thank god the flight wasn’t delayed. I had no desire to repeat last year’s Japan trip, where Nicole and I slept with our heads thrown back in the terminal. The flight was unremarkable. I’d give the landing a 7. The meal on the plane had the same components as McDonald’s, so I ended up eating potatoes twice and eggs twice in a single morning.

We arrived in Beijing and were immediately humbled by the visibility, which was absolute garbage. We came out of whichever terminal it was and got straight into a taxi. The driver seemed like a reliable old man, but it turned out he couldn’t figure out where we were going. We hadn’t gone far before the car started convulsing.

“Can’t go on,” he said. “Let me get you another car.” Seemed responsible enough.

A few minutes later we were in a Volkswagen Jetta whose windshield was, for fuck’s sake, cracked.

Hynes said nothing. Internally, he was almost certainly at a loss for words. He bent over his phone, and after a moment I found myself added to a WeChat group called “Capital Complaints.” The three of us didn’t say a word the whole way, while inside the group, Beijing was getting absolutely demolished.

Our hotel was in Wangjing, apartment-style. The front desk was a tiny office; the staff were so nice it was almost suspicious. The room was large. Not that it mattered.

We dropped our things, studied the map for a bit, and went out to find food. The nearest mall was tiny, claustrophobic, and laid out in a way that made no sense. Its one saving grace: brand variety. We had Weihai seafood noodles. Completely pointless. No desire to think about it again. Then we walked to 798.

The map made 798 look close but it took us about forty minutes. We had to wonder whether our entire understanding of map scale needed to be dismantled.

798 is a strange place. Outside, crowds everywhere. I momentarily thought: wow, this many people here for contemporary art. Then I realized they were just tourists. The standard tourist behavior: selfie sticks raised at every available surface, wandering in and out of small shops. The galleries were mostly empty, as expected. Except Pace. Goethe Institute had it worst—it had become a rest stop for tired tourists. Unable to take the blazing sun, we ducked into the café across from Continua to recover. I ordered a bottle of Perrier with nothing left to live for, and was then restored to life. Restored, we went back into Continua. The show HOST was actually quite interesting. Antony Gormley presented something so wet and space-consuming that none of us understand how it was done.

We also saw Yoko Ono’s golden ladder. Saw pretty much everything worth seeing.

UCCA was closed—installing a Rauschenberg show. A small regret.

That evening we ordered delivery: five-star Beijing snacks on Dianping. Not one dish was any good. We tried douzhir. All I can say is: Beijing people are genuinely insane.

Day two, we started at CAFA’s own museum for the graduate thesis show. No coherent curatorial vision. Exhausting to get through. Upstairs in the experimental section there were a few genuinely interesting pieces.

After CAFA we went straight to Caochangdi—suddenly felt like we’d left the city and entered the countryside. In Hynes’ plan, the main draw was Li Jin’s solo at Ink Studio. Leeks or pork belly, I thought it was worth the trip. Though our legs were giving out, we still hit every open gallery in the Red Warehouse, including ShanghART and White Space. Then we headed back to Wangjing SOHO for what was supposedly authentic New York pizza, and returned to the hotel to play mahjong and crash.

Day three, original plan: hit the National Art Museum and the National Museum. We were too naïve. We had forgotten that on Mondays, everything art-related is closed.

We walked toward the north gate of the Forbidden City, Shenwu Gate. You’ll never guess. The Forbidden City is also closed on Mondays.

We crossed the street to Jingshan Park, climbed to the pavilion at the top, and looked down at the Forbidden City. It was spectacular. But someone else’s imperial palace doesn’t really have much to do with us.

We moved on to Apple Community, caught Tian Xiaolei’s fairly hallucinatory solo at Today Art Museum, then had lunch at a convenience store. Couldn’t face Today’s Building 2.

Hynes said: “I can’t walk anymore. I’m not walking. I’m never painting again.”

We turned back.

That evening Inny’s college friend took us out for Beijing duck, which was good. But Hynes and Inny had a fight, and the night went nowhere. I had a cheerful phone call with a middle school girl, then chatted with a high school girl from Beijing on a live-streaming platform.

I was wrapped in loneliness. And I felt: Beijing is just like that. Can’t find love.