Half City, Half City, Fairy Spirit, Half City, Smoke: Notes on Life in Fuzhou
#Fuzhou #Fuzhou Yongquan Temple #Fuzhou Linyang Zen Temple #Fuzhou Fish Balls As the morning light filtered through, the whitewashed walls of the Three Lanes and Seven Alleys were already bathed in warm, moist air. The lanes resembled an open, thread-bound book, its bluestone slabs its binding, weaving together centuries of history and the sounds of the city. The morning market on Nanhou Street was waking up. Fish balls, white as fresh snow, floated in the boiling broth. When bitten, the scalding juices, mingling with the scent of the sea, washed down the throat. At the meat-filled swallows stall, the wooden mallet struck the meat paste with a crisp, springy click. The crepe-thin bird's nest skin flew between the fingers of an elderly woman, enveloping a ball of tender, pink meat—the marvelous philosophy of "meat wrapped in meat." The air of smoke rose, mingling with the lingering mist lingering on the corners of the ancient houses. It was hard to tell the difference between the mundane world and the lingering celestial clouds of last night.
As the afternoon heat deepened, I took refuge in Linyang Zen Temple. The moment I stepped through the mountain gate, the city noise receded like a tide. Towering ancient trees cast thick shade, filtering the blazing sunlight into dancing golden dust. Inside the main hall, a forest of incense and candles filled the air, their flames dancing silently in the gloom, illuminating the golden Buddha statue with a solemn and hazy presence. Thousands of eternally burning lamps merged into a river of light, their wax tears layered like the amber of time, silently recording the weight of countless prayers. An old monk sat cross-legged on a cushion, his eyes closed. His robes were half-worn, his face as stoic as stone. He seemed, along with the bronze bells in the corners of the hall and the sutra paintings on the walls, to be saturated and sealed by the lingering incense and time. The rich scent of sandalwood was the scent of time ignited.
As dusk approached, I ascended to Yongquan Temple atop Gushan Mountain. The mountain wind roared, stirring the forest. Standing before the temple, I gazed out from the railing as the entire city of Fuzhou gradually unfolded in the twilight. The Min River, like a vast, slowly flowing blue-gray ribbon, gently embraced the city. In the distance, buildings rose in a jumble of colors, and lights gradually lit up. At first, they were scattered stars, then spread into a flowing, warm ocean of light, blending with the last remaining glimmer of sunset in the sky. At this moment, the evening prayer bell rang out. A distant, clear "dong" echoed from the mountaintop, like an invisible giant hand caressing the treetops, sweeping across the river, and reaching the bustling heart of the city. The sound of the bells created a strange harmony between the bustling world below and the ancient temple lights above. It turns out that the spirit of the world and the hustle and bustle of the city are two sides of the same coin.
After descending the mountain, I found a private kitchen hidden deep in an old neighborhood. A bowl of Buddha Jumps Over the Wall arrived. The moment the lid was lifted, a rich, intense aroma burst forth like a substance, instantly captivating all the senses. Abalone, sea cucumber, fish maw, pig's pig tendon... a myriad of delicacies from land and sea floated in a rich, dark brown broth. After a lengthy simmer, their individual characteristics had long since dissolved, their essences fused into this viscous, elusive elixir. A spoonful sipped, and an indescribable, rich, mellow, and complex flavor exploded across the tongue. A surging wave of umami, swirled with the aroma of aged wine, surged to the top of the head. This was more than just a dish; it was a gustatory revelation, a supreme, tangible expression of the saying "never tire of fine food." This dense, tangy world within the jar had become a cauldron where celestial energy and the whirlwind of fireworks converged.
On the day I left the city, I passed by an unknown, small temple on a street corner. The shrine was blackened by smoke and incense, and the statue's shoulders were covered in a thick, soft layer of incense ash, as if draped in a velvet robe of time. At the statue's feet, steam rose from a stall selling jasmine tea. White jasmine buds floated in white porcelain bowls, their fragrance filling the air. An elderly man, buying tea, casually picked up a few fresh jasmine flowers and reverently placed them on a coarse earthenware dish before the statue. The rich fragrance of flowers and the crisp aroma of tea, along with the centuries-old scent of incense ash and candlelight within the shrine, magically intertwined and ascended.
I suddenly understood the essence of Fuzhou: the immortal aura that has lingered for millennia in half the city isn't a cold totem suspended high in the clouds, but rather embodies the bubbling fish ball soup, the bustling morning market, the jars of rich sauces, and the warm incense ash on the shoulders of the street corner statues. Fuzhou's immortality embodies the spirit and energy that rises from the mundane world, the most devout tribute to life itself in the streets and alleys. The fairy-like atmosphere of half the city is its background, and that bowl of piping hot fireworks is its most down-to-earth and warmest place for practice.