The first Saturday of March, April pushed at my shoulder, “Addy, wake up! He’s already waiting for us at west gate!”
I sat up, looking down at my jeans. “Do I have time to change my pants?” Back in Chicago, I rarely wear pants, let alone jeans. I brought this sole pair with me thinking they would be a good clothing item to potentially lose to Beijing’s smoggy atmosphere, and how right I was: earlier that day upon climbing machinery in the 798 Arts District, first the right seam followed immediately by the left seam of the inner thigh tore down to the knee. I wore tights underneath, thankfully, but I nonetheless looked quite ridiculous.