Perhaps it's the elation of being invited to share in a family's modest dinner [ironically, in their own restaurant]; perhaps it's the flicker of pride in realising I spoke more Chinese than English today.
And, perhaps, it's the drop or two of bloodcurdlingly-sweet putaohongjiu [Chinese red wine, not dissimilar to motor oil] I imbibed earlier this evening.
Whatever made today a good day, I'm closing my eyes tonight feeling a little less alienated.
Set out on foot this morning in anticipation of usual aimless wander. For I am the Cat who walks by Herself and all Places are alike to Me. Never know where I'm going, or how far, or why; my stomach dictates the route.
Chanced upon fruit and veg market. Oh, boy. I love a good market. Rarely do I actually want anything, let alone buy anything - I just love the assault on the senses. The push and crush and noise and smell and utter chaos of it all.
Turns out Chinese markets are the epitome of such. Bellowing vendors, dirty vegetables spilling out of carts, raw meat bleeding on chopping boards, fish dying in shallow buckets. Sacks of chamomile dried lemons sunflower seeds bean pods spices mushrooms; stalls crammed with socks dishbrushes woks tablecloths crotchless knickers. Brilliant.
Dates and fruit leathers are thrust at me; I am obliged to buy sultanas and dried apricots gathered and weighed in vendor's cracked bare hands. My crap Chinese produces usual hilarity.
Later, indulge in bread pancake [fail to recall Chinese name] stuffed with egg and spring onion and cooked in hot oil on [open-air] stove. Served in plastic bag. Epic.
Post-lunch wander takes me back into city centre. Investigate black market mobile phones sold from makeshift tables on street corners. Turn down offers of 50 kuai for quality brands of NCKIA, SamSing, Sharb.
Later [en route to purchase of aforementioned sickly alcohol] take a detour through backstreets near my apartment. And feel somewhat ashamed it has taken me three months to discover entire network of shops/restaurants run by Chinese Muslim community. Alleviate this by buying a kuai worth of sweets and having a conversation in bad Chinese with headscarfed shopowners. Who tell me I'm beautiful.
Salty dinner required. Head to our local; a restaurant dubbed Mary One in honour of eleven-year-old waitress who fairly runs the place. Restaurant is unusually empty; the only diners are the family themselves [who live in the next room]. Headscarfed mum [head waitress] is dishing up noodles to husband [cook] and daughter [Mary One]. I make lame acknowledgement of their food [hao chi ma? - It is delicious?]. Husband eagerly fetches saucer. Much nodding and gesturing follows; generous serving of their evening meal is ladled out and handed to me.
Hao chi, indeed. Just like mumma would have made.
I eat, and watch the family eat and talk, and feel the tiniest pang of homesickness.
Then real diners arrive and mum, dad and Mary are back on duty.
Return home, sated.
And wonder, dreamily, if I am perhaps beginning to forgive Hohhot for its dust/wind/bad plumbing/doorless toilets/cellphone thieves/mad traffic/spoilt children.
If, perhaps, this is the beginning of some kind of affection for the place.
And find cockroach in bathroom sink.
Oh, well. Only three more months.
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