Getting lost down side streets as dusk hits pink blush lilac smokey blue. Every corner, stretched canopy or pile of bricks is a magic little scene.
Creamy greyblue skies. A diffusion filter caused by pollution. 24 million people cutting corners on mopeds, singing karaoke in parks, sauntering down tiny lanes and riding escalators to consumer heaven.
And everywhere, all the time, the habitual blaring of car, truck, bus and scooter horns. A perfect cacophony of confusion. Ancient meets futuristic.
My camera lens is met with lingering, unflappable gazes. I am the other. And then there was the old lady on the subway who smiled and said I looked very cool. And the University students who told us that in mandarin New Zealand, wonderfully, sounds like Sing Sea Land.