24 Hours in Jiangnan

Suzhou→Nanjing

Jiangsu hides its story in two very different rhythms: Suzhou is a lullaby sung by Wu Nong, and Nanjing is an epic written by the wutong leaf.

At this moment, I am standing in Pingjiang Road on the SLATE, the hand is still holding the Humble Administrator's garden dropped wisteria petals, and the backpack has quietly loaded into the Nanjing wutong whisper. Jiangnan more cunning - the most moving fragments, hidden in the corner of the tea, hiding in the sound of the boat, waiting for you to pick up.

Suzhou: A slice of time in a garden

At seven o 'clock in the morning, the window of Yangcheng Lake Tunnel reflects the morning light of the water town.

Riding the net about the car over the shadow of the phoenix tree, direct to the Humble Administrator's Garden, step by step, into the yard, found the garden in early spring, the window cut the morning light into diamond shaped fragments. When the koi in the pool flicked its tail, the water wave overflowed the plaque of "with whom to sit Xuan". Nearby, a girl in a Hanfu walks across the nine-curve bridge with her skirt, clogs tapping on the flagstones. Tour guide flags one after another, I hid into the "Xiangzhou" boat in the shadow, found the opposite side of the wisteria flower waterfall in the sun, do not need to sniff, aroma floating in the air.

Eat crab shell yellow at the teahouse on Pingjiang Road at noon. The silver bracelets on the owner's wrist jingle as she serves tea: "Try our Biluochun, cooked with canal water." Wooden Windows facing the river are open, black tarpaulin boats ferry tourists across the twin Bridges, and the boatwoman's Wu dialect is softer and wavier than Pingtan. The embroider beside the bridge is embroidering peonies on the frame, and the silk thread is shining in the sunshine.

In the evening, rent a shared bike and wander to Shantang Street. The flagstones suddenly turned into flowing satin as the lanterns were lit. An old man selling sugar paintings scooped up amber syrup with a copper spoon: "Draw only a phoenix to A-Mei?" The sugar painting solidified into transparent wings on the blue SLATE, and the owner of the antique shop next door leaned out: "This sugar painting is more tolerable than the stones in the Humble Administrator's Garden."

Nanjing: Echoes of Six dynasties in Wutong leaves

The next morning, take the high-speed train to Nanjing South Railway Station, Metro Line 3 announcement vocal line Jinling: "Fuzimiao station here!" When I left the station, I could smell the aroma of duck blood noodles soup. The glass of the shop was covered with white fog, and the aunt in an apron was fishing for duck blood with a long-handled spoon: "Add duck liver or duck intestines?"

The front of the Confucius Temple is crowded with tourists taking photos. The red walls of Lingxing Gate reflected the neon lights of cruise ships, and girls in horse-faced skirts circled the Wende Bridge, sweeping Ming Dynasty stone lions.

Turn a circle, afternoon taxi to the Zhongshan scenic area. On the road, the green shade of Wutong Avenue is thick, and the glazed tiles of the Meiling Palace are flickering in the shadow of the trees. When climbing to the Ming Xiaoling Mausoleum Fangcheng Ming downstairs, the sweaty back was suddenly swept by the mountain wind, trance heard the camel bell 600 years ago.

It is said that the old gate east salted duck restaurant has been open for more than 100 years. The old master wrapped duck in lotus leaves: "Lotus leaves were picked from Mochou Lake in the morning." There was a long queue in front of the stalls, and the red bean porridge in the copper pot was bubbling. The girl wearing cheongsam came out of Rouge Lane, holding a newly made Suzhou embroidered handkerchief in her hand, and the cat at the mouth of the alley was taking a nap under the sign of "Jiang Youji".

Climb the purple peak building when night falls. The glass viewing platform is suspended 450 meters in the air, the Xuanwu Lake at the foot is like a broken jade, and the lanterns of the Confucius Temple are connected into a flowing Milky Way. The headphones randomly played to "Jasmine Flower", the river wind through the clouds, the story of Jinling into a pearl, falling on the Yangtze River chain.

On the return trip, in Nanjing South Railway Station to buy vacuum packaging of salted duck, the salesgirl told in Nanjing dialect: "Put the refrigerator at home, with beer the most brilliant!" When the high-speed train pulled out of the platform, I pressed the window to see the Purple Mountain gradually going away, and felt vaguely that the breath of the city was hidden in the rustle of the Indus leaves - the king's gas six hundred years ago, and the fireworks two thousand years later, were gently shaking in the reflection of the water of the Qinhuai River.