Traffic on a good day. Note the little yellow Chinese taxis.

The tall building in the background is Capital Mansion, my beacon. This shot is from about a mile away. It's been raining so the air is pretty clear now... the city isn't yet completely shrouded in exhaust fumes and coal smoke again. Not for a few more hours at least.

I take the motorcycle to pick up Teresa at the embassy, running the red lights with a dozen other vehicles. I pass on the right, in the bicycle lane. I go over the curb onto a sidewalk to avoid a jammed intersection.

The Chinese are going to have to put in place some rules of the road before another year goes by, not because it's right or polite or because everyone else has road rules, but because right now the individual in control of the wheel is getting too used to the taste of anarchy, and that's bad.... very bad, because it digs them deeper and deeper into gridlock.

I've already noticed, between this visit and last, a grudging respect for the traffic cop. No longer is he merely an animated soldier atop a large drum performing what looks to be a a precise interpretive dance for entertainment's sake. He's finally getting some respect, and I wonder what has happened?  If they've increased traffic fines. If there is improved driver training.  If the gridlock is so bad that people have just figured out for themselves that if they run the red, keep the oncoming traffic from coming on that the other guys will run the red and keep the oncoming traffic from coming on until they're just plain stuck. I've seen it so bad that pedestrians can't even walk through because they're literally bumper to bumper. I've seen it so bad that drivers can't even open their doors. And for some reason, everyone starts beeping their horns. Cars can weave themselves itself into such intricate patterns that even bicyclists stuck in the middle can't get through. They either haul the bike and its load over the cars, using bumpers as stepping stones, or simply wait with the rest of traffic.

There is one such traffic jam at the corner just where I need to turn, so I make a loop around it by driving on the sidewalks. There is no other solution, and anyway, it doesn't seem to outrage anyone. I think about what might happen if you did this too often in California. About how many tickets I've had just for parking on the sidewalks at home in San Francisco.

I make it to Franks, finally, an American style restaurant that serves hamburgers and French fries, hot dogs, and chili. I have an lunch date with Mr. Jiang, and Teresa is there to interpret.

After our chili and ginger ale, Mr. Jiang sits smoking while Teresa and I continue to attempt, vainly, to explain why I am taking this trip. He can't understand it, and he thinks I'll be in trouble if I tell people I'm just traveling around just for the adventure of it. People don't do that here, he says. They go in large groups for a purpose, to see `sights,' and they are suspicious of lone travelers or even travelers in small groups.

“The only people who travel alone or in small groups are bad people. Criminals,” he tells us.

“What can she tell people she's doing, then?” asks Teresa. Mr. Jiang doesn't really know, even though he's been hanging out with this group of American expats for more than a year, taking motorcycle rides and camping. “It would be better to take someone,” he says.

“How about if I tell them I want to be the first westerner to go explore China by motorcycle?” I ask. I figure that will do it. But it doesn't.

Teresa and Mr. Jiang then have an excited conversation during which Teresa keeps half-turning to me but becomes engaged again too soon to translate.

“This is interesting,” she says. There's a gap here I can't seem to bridge. I'm finding myself having to start from too far away from the current situation -- to explain the very concept of free travel.”

She tries. Mr. Jiang leans back and listens. His head is down as if he might be nodding off, but I know he is listening intently. He probably doesn't often have the opportunity to have a couple of near-forty year old women argue with him. I only consider that now, in retrospect, that I am in a country where rank and age and sex and many other status variables are considered before even one sentence is uttered. Young defers to old. Women defer to men. But, to his credit, Mr. Jiang listens.

Mr. Jiang is maybe 45. Maybe 40. Maybe 50. It is impossible for me to guess the age of most Chinese. He has the face of a baby and the careful demeanor of a politician. He wears a heavy cotton expedition shirt, the kind you get from stores like North Face or REI. Mr. Jiang owns a camping equipment shop that is very nicely outfitted with these things -- hiking shorts and tents and Swiss army knives. This is strange, I think, because it is becoming obvious that people don't camp here, don't hike, don't mountain bike, don't really like to be out in nature all by themselves for some reason. His business is successful here, probably because all things western in China are popular. So the Chinese buy these things, and an occasional tourist stumbles in, grateful for a pair of hiking books before a flight to Lhasa.

When Teresa finishes talking there is a moment of silence. Mr. Jiang, I see, is going to say something important.

“It is like the knife,” he says, leaning slightly forward. “Americans have a knife for paring fruit and vegetables, a knife for cutting bread, a knife for slicing meat... many knives. But the Chinese, we only have one knife, and we use it for everything.”

He settles back in his chair again as Teresa translates.

“What does that mean?” I ask her.

She shrugs.