The Pekingese in the rain

A light shower interrupts my stroll through the vast botanical garden. Luckily, a gazebo appears; I walk towards it, and there's a man inside. We strike up a conversation. He's a slender Chinese man, dressed casually or perhaps sportily, who knows? He lives in Beijing and turns out to be very talkative and expressive. His English has a strong accent that I have trouble following. After each comment, he bursts out laughing. He's here for the julienne fruit season; I have no idea what that is, I'll find out the next day.

He told me life is better here. Why? Because of freedom? Yes, back home we can think what we want, but we can't say it, and it's not easy to think critically; we lack information. And you can't elect your leaders? That's right. Maybe one day that will change? I don't think so in my lifetime.

The downpour stops, we each go our separate ways after a warm handshake and a photo.

The next day, driving between the airport and the dock where I was to board my flight, an endless line of vendors passed by, each with a pile of a large, spiky fruit I'd seen in Kuala Lumpur. "Davian fruit, it's the season, people are going crazy," the driver told me. "Is that the smelly fruit?" "Yes." "Do you like it?" "I love it." I decided to try some.

Reading about it, I learned that it stinks so badly, like fermented athletic socks, that it's forbidden to eat it on public transport and in hotel rooms. According to Anthony Bourdai, who tasted everything he could get his hands on, after eating it your breath is like you've been French kissing your mother-in-law's corpse for hours. I'm not sure I'll keep my promise.